Thursday's Child
by Sita Z
Summary: On a hot day in August, a child is kidnapped. Thirty years later, Malcolm has a strange encounter... AU, TR friendship. Epilogue is up! COMPLETE!
1. Prologue

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Genre: Angst/Drama

Rating: M

Summary: On a hot day in August, a child is kidnapped. Thirty years later, Malcolm has a strange encounter.

Disclaimer: This fiction was written for my personal enjoyment, not for any profit whatsoever.

AN: Big thanks go to my wonderful beta readers - T'eyla, for loving the Malcolm moments, The Libran Iniquity, for helping me fight that monster called English grammar, and Gabi, for working her beta magic and improving the story to no end. Thanks girls!

This story will be updated every three or four days; feedback, as always, is very much appreciated!

And now... on with the story!

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Prologue

August had been a hot month. During daytime, everything seemed soaked in heat, and even during the nights the temperature wouldn't cool down. Nature struggled to cope with the drought, and the wildlife suddenly found their lush, green corner of the world turning into a place where only the fittest survived. The grass grew yellow, and the ponds shallowed out, revealing the muddy rocks and tangled weed that dwelled at their bottoms. Animals coming to drink had to content themselves with a small, cloudy puddle in the very middle, and soon even that dried away, leaving only mud and dying plants in its wake.

The people living in the area were better off - after all, it was the 22nd century, and no one had to worry about their watering place going dry. Still, while the heat hadn't killed anyone yet (except for an old lady who had fallen asleep on her porch and suffered a heatstroke), it began to drain them of their energy. They stayed at home, shutters closed and air conditioning running at maximum, and it was only in the evening that they finally ventured out, taking a late afternoon stroll or having the occasional barbecue.

But the heat also took some of their fear away; it was simply too hot to be worried about anything, or to watch anxiously if there were any warnings about their region on the news.

In fact, thinking back to that particular day in August, Susan had to admit that she had never even switched on the Vid after getting up. Of course, you were supposed to check every morning, midday and evening - Government Security policy - but on that particular day the baby woke her up at 4 am and cried for two hours before she finally managed to tiptoe out of the room and back to her own bed. After that, Susan was too tired to remember anything, let alone check the Vid to see if there had been any warnings. But then, the warnings seldom made any difference, and on that day in August, warnings would have made no difference at all.

Susan usually got up at 7, so she still had one hour of sleep left when Lizzie finally quieted down. Carefully closing the door of the children's room, she went back to her bedroom, and sighed when she saw the light seeping in through the blades of the closed shutters. It had still been dark outside when she had gone to check on Lizzie.

Susan crawled back under the covers, and knew at the same time that she wouldn't be able to go back to sleep. She couldn't sleep when the room wasn't dark, and she missed her husband's warm, quietly snoring presence on the other side of the bed. Charles was visiting his parents in Miami - his father hadn't been well lately - and wouldn't be back for another week. His mother had wanted Susan to come as well, bring the children, but as much as she wanted to go, there was no one to take care of the farm while she was gone. So Charles had gone alone, feeling bad about leaving her with both the farm and the children to look after, but she had told him that it was okay. His parents needed him, and she was going to be fine. Just peachy.

_Well, maybe not so fine, after all_, she thought as she lay awake, staring at the windows that reflected the light of the early morning sun. He'd been gone for only four days, and she already missed him so badly. It was the first time in the eight years that they had been married that he was gone for more than two or three days. You couldn't simply drop everything and go on holiday when you owned a farm, and these days, people tended to stay at home. Stay where it was safe - of course, there wasn't such a thing as a safe place, but at home you could at least pretend it was. You could go on with your everyday routine, worry about the fields going dry and your husband being away and not think about what was going on in this hell of a world that their beautiful blue planet had become.

Susan sighed, swinging her legs over the side of the bed. The boys were up - she could hear the thuds and giggles that usually accompanied their early morning pillow fights - and when Andy and Trip were up, then Lizzie was going to wake up in no time as well. Susan only hoped that the baby had done her share of crying for today, and wasn't going to wake up cranky. She wasn't sure if she was up to another two hours of wearing a path in the bedroom floor.

Opening the door to the children's room, she saw that Lizzie was indeed awake, sitting in her crib and giggling as she watched her two older brothers pelt each other with every pillow and stuffed animal they could reach. Six year old Andy had just sent another pillow flying in the direction of his younger brother, and Trip quickly ducked, the pillow missing his head by inches and hitting the crib instead. Lizzie squealed with delight, probably feeling that she had been invited to join the fight.

Susan smiled. "Mornin', guys. Be a little careful, okay?"

"Mommy!" The boys hopped out of bed, feeling far from guilty about the mess they had made (after all, this was their usual morning routine) and ignored Lizzie's outraged cry at being left behind. "Can we go outside an' play, Mommy? Please?"

Susan marveled at their inexhaustible energy; these days, the heat tended to leave most people sluggish and slow. Not so her boys; they would be happily playing soccer on the front yard when every adult in the neighborhood had escaped to the shadiest place they could find, chugging down iced tea and praying that the air conditioning wouldn't break down.

Susan lifted Lizzie out of her crib so the baby would have no reason to start another crying marathon.

"You boys get yourself dressed an' have some breakfast first. Don't forget to put away your dishes when you're done!"

Ten minutes later, the slam of the screen door told Susan that her boys had left the building. While she had no doubts that her orders had been followed and the boys had stuffed their cups and bowls into the dishwasher, she doubted that either of them had eaten more than a few spoonfuls of cornflakes. Andy and Trip regarded breakfast and other meals only as an unwelcome interruption, and Susan had no idea how they managed to eat so little and stay so hyper at the same time.

She went downstairs and sighed when she looked out the window - the sky was of a clear blue, and there was no cloud to be seen. She had expected no different, of course - after all, the last rain was almost a month ago. She was going to have to water her vegetable garden today if she didn't want the tomatoes to look like shriveled prunes at the end of the day.

Later, Susan didn't remember when she had heard it first - before or after Lizzie had suddenly started to cry - but she remembered that her last thought before It happened had been about watering her tomatoes. Even after all those years, it was that thought which always brought the tears to her eyes.

There was a scream. It was an adult screaming, a man, and at first, Susan was too surprised to be scared. The sound was so - unexpected, and didn't fit at all into the peaceful summer morning. She stood completely still, and then she heard it. A strange hum, growing louder like a giant bumblebee's buzz, and a sound like a weapon being fired. No. Not _like_ a weapon being fired. The sound _of_ a weapon being fired.

After that, Susan's memories were only fragmentary, like snatches of a nightmare that you still remember years after you woke up sweating and shaking, telling yourself that it had only been a dream. Only that it hadn't been a dream. It was the nightmare happening again and again all over the planet, and the second she heard the weapon fire her only thought had been the children.

Clutching a terrified, screaming baby, she had run out the back door only to see their neighbor's house on fire. Smoke was darkening the sky, and she could hear screams and explosions, could see bursts of flames when another house started to burn.

"Andy!"

Her son came running toward her, his eyes so wide that they didn't look completely sane anymore. He wasn't crying, but his face was as white as a sheet and his lips were moving, as if he were trying to say something.

"Andy! Where's Trip? Oh my God..."

She grabbed her son and held him tight, watching part of the neighbor house's roof come down and hit the driveway with a loud crash. And then she saw them. There were four of them, huge, bulking silhouettes against the light of the flames. Coming closer.

Susan grabbed Andy's shoulder, trying to shake him out of his shock.

"Andy, you take Lizzie 'n' go hide in the basement. Y'know, the room with the door that can be locked from the inside. Go in there and stay there _no matter what happens_. D'you understand?"

The boy stared at her. "M-mommy?"

"Do what I say!" She shoved the crying baby into his arms, and gave him a push. "I'll be with you in a minute!"

That did it. Andy raced towards the house, and Susan turned around. They were coming closer, and she knew that they had seen her, that they were coming for her. Her mind screamed at her to run, to escape while there was still time, but Trip was still somewhere out here. Her child was out here, and she wasn't going to leave him behind.

"Mommy!"

For one moment, Susan stood frozen with shock. The aliens were now close enough for her to see their faces and weapons, and one of them was holding something in a vise grip under his arm. Something that squirmed and kicked out, desperately trying to get away.

"Trip!"

Susan Tucker wasted no time to think. She was scared out of her mind, and it was not heroism that made her do what she did next. Seeing the alien hurt her child filled her with a white-hot rage, and as she ran towards the Orion raiders all she could think of was killing the man who was threatening her son.

"Let him go!"

One of them raised his weapon, but she didn't care, hurling herself at the alien who was holding Trip. He shoved her away and another one laughed, saying something in a guttural voice. She scrambled back to her feet and would have started another attack if not for the hands that grabbed her arms and lifted her off her feet.

"Let me go, you bastard!"

Susan went wild, kicking and scratching and screaming, and at the same time she could hear Trip crying and shouting at them to let her go. The man who had grabbed her lost his grip and she punched him in the face, hard enough to crack her knuckles and his nose at the same time. They both screamed with pain, and he let go of her, dark green blood coming out of his nose and running down on both sides of his mouth. Ignoring the pain in her hands, Susan went back at the man holding Trip, and managed to land one solid punch on his cheek before he grabbed her and held her away at arm's length. Through a blur of tears, she looked at him, and saw that unlike the other men, he wasn't laughing. His round, young face was flushed, and he seemed confused, startled maybe by her reaction. He had no compassion for her, but she saw that her fighting back had surprised him. Thrown him off balance.

"Please," she whispered, never taking her eyes off his face. "Please, let him go."

Something flickered in his eyes, and for one, crazy moment Susan believed he was going to do it. Show mercy. Let them go. Then, however, someone spun her around, breaking their eye contact and wrapping strong arms around her waist to lift her up again. Susan reacted instinctively before he could hoist her over his shoulder, ramming her knee into his crotch.

The man gave a strangled sound and doubled over, hands on the injured part of his anatomy.

When Susan thought back to the frenzy of her fight against the Orion raiders, her memories seemed to black out at that particular point, and she supposed that this had been when one of them had knocked her down with his gun. The last thing she remembered was whirling around, and looking into the terrified face of her four-year-old son for the split of a second before pain exploded at the back of her head, and her world dissolved.

Susan woke up twelve hours later, back in her room with Doctor Lowell and Charles sitting next to her bed. They told her that the attack was over; both Andy and Lizzie were alive, and so was she, although it had been a close call. The Orions had probably thought that she was dead, and that was why they had left her behind. Most of the town had been burned down, and more than 500 people were Lost or dead, but she was going to pull through. She - they - had survived.

"Trip?" Susan asked, trying to prop herself up on her elbows. At her question, the forced smile both men had been wearing crumpled; Lowell looked away, and Charles covered his eyes with his hand. And that was when she knew. Her son was gone.

Susan cried for a month. She refused to eat until she needed vitamin shots to stabilize her weakened metabolism, wouldn't listen to Charles when he carefully tried to comfort her and spent hours staring at the blank ceiling of her bedroom, asking herself over and over again why. Why had it happened, why had it happened to Trip, why hadn't she been able to defend her child. She supposed there were answers to at least some of her questions, but Susan wanted no answers. Answers weren't going to bring her son back, so what use was it to talk, to explain. Trip was gone.

After two months, Charles came to her bedroom and told her that Andy had asked him if Mommy was going to kill herself. He told her so with no accusation in his voice, but still, it was the first time Susan really listened to him. She sat up, blew her nose, and went to comfort the son that she had left.

Life didn't get back to normal, not for another five or six years, at least, but Susan found that she had the strength to continue her routine. And she found it in herself to be glad when Andy started to smile again, when Lizzie learned to walk and talk and grew up to be an energetic little girl that didn't have to cope with the nightmares her older brother frequently had.

There were times when she didn't think of Trip, and she told herself firmly that it was okay, although deep down she never believed that it was. Sometimes, she and Charles would look at some pictures, but after a while they silently agreed that it simply hurt too much. Pictures might provide some comfort if your child was dead, if there was death certificate and a gravestone with his name on it. But if your child was Lost, then pictures only opened the old wound, reminding you that this had been then and that you didn't even want to know what _now_ might look like.

Sometimes, when Susan lay awake at night, she prayed to any God that might be listening that this day in August had been the end for Trip, that he had been killed. But she knew that it was not so. Her son lived.

And that was what hurt her most of all.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	2. Chapter 1

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks to everybody who reviewed the prologue!

Gabi (Danke nochmal für den Hinweis. Hat ja zum Glück noch geklappt mit dem Ändern), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (thank you! I know I should -not- be asking this in an Author's Note, but what about your Summer Camp Sequel? -stares at you with big puppy dog eyes- ), Roaring Mice (somehow I always end up writing these angsty things ;-)...), The Libran Iniquity (Yes, I can see where you got confused... anyway, here comes the Aktualisierung, extra für dich!), Exploded Pen (That's right... sad to think that sometimes that's not enough), JennMel (thank you :-)!), volley (thanks! Yes, I promise I'll update regularly, not least because I need another dose of reviews every three or four days ;-) ), Luna ( Your review gave me quite a start. I'm glad to hear everything turned out alright for your family. Your comment is a great compliment, thank you! ), firebirdgirl (thanks! I'd love to get your opinion on the next chapter!), stage manager ( okay, here goes...)

Please keep the feedback coming!

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Chapter 1

"I am in your debt." Senator V'Lin bowed his head deeply, the gesture accompanied by an exaggerated flourish. Malcolm knew that he hated having to say these words to an offworlder, and therefore made sure that everyone assembled in the hall heard the sarcasm underlying his "thanks". "I know there's nothing I can do to repay the kindness you have shown me and my family."

_No, I bet there isn't._ Malcolm kept a straight face, as if he hadn't noticed the senator's mocking tone_. "I am honored, Senator."_

"We are the honored ones, _K'tar_!" The Senator placed an ironic emphasis on the title. "You saved our lives."

Malcolm sighed inwardly. Playing the role of a security guard assigned to protect the Senator's family, he had been able to gather the information the Vulcans were so eager to get, and in less time than he had thought it would take. No problems there; despite the corruption and the intrigues going on in the Kareedian government, the Senator went to no trouble at all to keep secret things secret, and discussed confidential matters at a public banquet as if the idea of an unwanted listener had never crossed his mind. Unfortunately, though, one of the unwanted listeners had been his own personal body guard, who was going to pass on the information to Kareedia's sworn enemy in only a few days. But first they had to get over with this parody of a farewell ceremony. Malcolm straightened his posture when the Senator came towards him to touch his shoulders in the Kareedian gesture of honoring a guest. He was wearing the traditional body armor of a Kareedian soldier and so he didn't feel it when the Senator's heavy hands came to rest on his shoulders, but he still had to force himself not to shrink back. The man's breath was hot, and smelled slightly of last night's alcoholic excesses.

"It is true, we cannot repay your kindness - " - _and what a pity that is _, Malcolm thought - "but custom requires that we present you with a gift, to thank you for your services and show you our appreciation."

Malcolm's heart sank at these words. He wanted nothing to do with any gift Senator V'Lin might have in store for him. From what he knew of the man, it was probably a box of poisoned candy, and a cheap one to boot. All he wanted for the man was to remove his fat hands and allow him to leave so he could get back to the meeting point where Archer was waiting to pick him up.

"Senator..."

Finally, V'Lin let go of him and stepped back. "K'tar, I am sure you are aware of the fact that in _our_ culture - " again he stressed the word deliberately- "it is considered an insult to reject a gift. It brings shame over both the giver and the receiver."

_Okay, okay._ Malcolm didn't need the Senator's meaningful look to get the unspoken warning; if he refused to accept the gift, whatever it was, he would humiliate the Senator in front of his entire household. And V'Lin, he had come to know, didn't take kindly to being insulted.

"Again, I am honored by your generosity, Senator." _Now give me that blasted candy and let me go._

V'Lin turned and clapped his hands. "Bring him in."

Malcolm's head came up sharply. _Him!_ He watched two of the Senator's servants leave the room, and suddenly realized that he didn't really want to know what - or _who_ - they were going to come back with. Inadvertently, he caught the Senator's eyes, and saw that the man was wearing a thin smile Malcolm didn't like at all. Maybe he should change "poisoned box of candy" to "poisonous snake"; the ominous "him" V'Lin had referred to might as well be the Senator's pet cobra. Which, by the way, V'Lin would gladly watch as it devoured his hated alien bodyguard in one big swallow.

_For God's sake, get a grip, _Malcolm told himself_. A few weeks in this madhouse, and you're already starting to think like them._

, Malcolm told himself. 

He looked away from the Senator, and put on a - hopefully - indifferent expression as he waited for his "gift" to arrive. Whatever it was, it was certainly not a deadly predator waiting to tear out his throat. Even Senator V'Lin wouldn't attempt a murder that obvious.

When the servants finally returned, Malcolm saw that his gift was indeed not a snake. Nor was it the box of candy that the cynical voice at the back of his mind had suggested. It was a man. He was about Malcolm's age - it was the first thing Malcolm noticed - and he was not Kareedian. In fact, he looked human; his tan suggested that he spent a lot of his time outside, and his dark blond hair was tousled, as if he hadn't combed it in some days. He wore a ragged version of the usual Kareedian servant attire - drab trousers and a matching shirt - and even though he never raised his eyes as he was led into the hall, Reed could see that he was scared.

Malcolm glanced away from the man and back at the Senator, not sure what to say. V'Lin's unpleasant smile broadened.

"As you can see, K'tar, he looks like one of your own kind. I am sure that you will find his services all the more... enjoyable."

He turned and barked something in Kareedian that the translator didn't pick up. The man, however, seemed to have understood. His eyes still fixed on the floor, he came to a halt in front of Malcolm and sank to his knees, arms crossed behind his back. The Senator smiled.

"The similarities are astounding, indeed."

While Malcolm was still shocked by the nature of his "gift", he slowly came to understand what this was all about. It wasn't by coincidence that the Senator had chosen this man to be "given" to him in a public ceremony. By presenting him with a slave that looked like "one of his own kind", V'Lin wanted to show him - and everyone else watching - what he and all other offworlders were really good for. This gift was as much of an insult as sending him away without so much as a "thank you" would have been.

Malcolm considered quickly. Rejecting the gift, though probably the "honorable" thing to do, was not an option. As the Senator had not-so-subtly mentioned before, such an action would be considered a serious insult, and would give V'Lin every right to react accordingly. And taking a look at the silent man kneeling before him, he realized that it would be more than cruel to leave him with these people. If there was even the slightest chance to free at least one of V'Lin's unlucky servants, then he wasn't going to pass it up.

He straightened himself. "I thank you for your _thoughtful_ and generous gift, Senator V'Lin." Stressing the word, he looked hard at the Senator to let him know that he was very aware of what was going on. "I do not deserve the honor bestowed upon me."

V'Lin's lips twitched. "Oh, I am sure you do deserve it, more than anyone else." He paused, so the hidden insult could sink in. "Well, K'tar, I am afraid it is time to say farewell. If you wish, my guards can accompany you to your flitter."

Malcolm shook his head. "Thank you, Senator, but that won't be necessary. I'll be fine."

"As you wish." V'Lin turned to the audience and clapped his hands once again. "The ceremony is over, and the K'tar wishes to leave. You can go."

Obediently, the people filed out of the room, not wasting another look on the alien soldier their master disliked so much. Malcolm looked back at the blond man who was still kneeling on the marble floor. He had not moved during the entire conversation, not even when V'Lin gave his household staff permission to leave. As much as Malcolm wanted to tell the man that he was free to go, he knew that doing so would destroy the image of the profit-seeking alien mercenary he had so carefully constructed. Still, he wasn't sure what to say to the man, how to address him. They hadn't even told him what he was called. In the end, it was the Senator who saved him.

"You can get up now," he said to the servant, nudging him with his foot. "Take your master's belongings and go."

Malcolm realized that the order was indirectly directed towards him, even though V'Lin had addressed the servant. The Senator wanted him out of his house. Slowly, the man got up, but to Malcolm's surprise he just stood there, making no move to follow V'Lin's order.

"Well?" The Senator's voice grew impatient.

For the first time, the man opened his mouth. His voice sounded slightly hoarse, and he looked at the floor in front of V'Lin's feet as he spoke. "What about my children, sir?"

Malcolm took a sharp breath at these words, but if anything, the Senator showed only mild irritation.

"What about them?"

At that, the man raised his head to look at the Senator. Malcolm could feel his despair as he spoke again.

"I... I can't just leave them behind, sir..."

Malcolm expected the Senator to get angry, but V'Lin didn't. In a cruel sort of way, he seemed to enjoy toying with the man's feelings, seeing how far he would go in his desperation.

"Why not?"

The man swallowed hard. "They're very young, sir... they need me..."

The Senator smiled his thin smile. "Do they, now? Well, you don't have to worry about that; I'm going to sell them first chance I find. They'll be well taken care of."

All color drained out of the man's face. In one swift movement, he dropped back to his knees and grabbed the front of the Senator's robes in a plea of despair.

"No! Please, no, I beg you-"

"Oh, shut up!" V'Lin seemed to have enough of his little game, and pushed the man away with his foot. "Now get up and do as you're told, or I'll-"

"Senator." Malcolm had a hard time keeping his voice as cold as he intended. "I wasn't aware that the man has children."

"So what? It doesn't matter." For a moment, V'Lin's carefully hidden antipathy showed clearly on his face. Malcolm found that he couldn't care less.

"I think it matters to him," he said, pointing at the man on the floor. "I do not approve of families being separated."

V'Lin's lips pressed together in a thin line. "Never would have put you down for the sentimental type, K'tar. Does this mean you are rejecting my gift?"

Malcolm's mind raced. If he said yes, he knew he was going to be in serious trouble. There was no way V'Lin would let him go after he'd insulted him in such a way, and he was putting his mission at risk with every second he remained in this house. Still, playing master to a slave in order to maintain his image was one thing; separating a father from his children was another.

"No, Senator," he said, deliberately ignoring the first part of V'Lin's statement. "In fact, I'm asking you another favor. Would you have the man's children brought here?"

The Senator seemed genuinely surprised. "Why would you want to see them? They're just two dirty little things, and they'll kick up one hell of a fuss when they find out that he's going to leave."

Malcolm saw a flash of anger cross the blond man's features, and spoke quickly before the man said anything he was going to regret.

"Please, Senator."

"Oh, for... very well." Angrily, V'Lin motioned at a servant standing next to the door. "Get them."

The servant hurried to obey, and for the first time, Malcolm addressed the man that had been "given" to him. "Get up."

He tried to sound gruff, but the man didn't seem to notice or care. As he got to his feet, his blue eyes locked with Malcolm's, and Reed saw the silent plea in them.

_I'll do everything I can, _he promised, equally silently, even though he was beginning to doubt that his decision to have the children brought here had been such a good idea, after all.

V'Lin maintained a disgruntled silence until the door of the hall opened again. The servant was back, followed by two children who looked with wide eyes at their surroundings as they timidly stepped into the hall. The older child, a girl, seemed to be about eight or nine years old, whereas her brother didn't look older than four. At first sight, Malcolm would have never guessed that the blond man was related to them; their skin was the color of creamy coffee, their hair black and curly. His doubts were erased, however, when the children caught sight of their father.

"Daddy!" They sped towards him, ignoring the presence of both V'Lin and Malcolm. The blond man squatted down, holding his arms open.

"Hey, you two!"

His face lit up in a smile, and Malcolm was surprised what a difference it made. Smiling, the man looked confident and happy, and it suited him a lot better than the look of the frightened, submissive servant. It looked _right_.

Both of children clung to their father and he hugged them back, letting no sign of anxiety show.

"Hey, you're going to crack my ribs!" he laughed, and the children giggled in response, tightening their grip on his midst. Malcolm smiled involuntarily as the man made a show of pretending that they were actually breaking his ribs.

"Ow, you're killing me!"

"So, why did you want to see them?" V'Lin's voice brought him back to the present. He bit his lip. _Yeah why?_ Malcolm was very aware of the blond man's eyes on him as he spoke.

"I was wondering... how much do you want for them?"

Both the Senator and the man stared at him, the latter's eyes widening as he realized the implications of Malcolm's question. Then, V'Lin laughed.

"Oh come on, K'tar. You can't be serious about this. You have no use for them at all, and-"

"How much, Senator?"

V'Lin's smile vanished. "Why do you want to know?"

Malcolm looked him straight in the eyes. "Because I intend to buy them."

The Senator crossed his arms in front of his chest. "And if I said that they are not for sale?"

"Then," Malcolm said slowly, never taking his eyes off the man, "I'd remind you of a day one week ago when you would have been shot if it hadn't been for my intervention. As far as I know, there is a Kareedian custom saying that if another person saves your life, you must give them a gift-"

"I have given you a gift-"

"-a gift_ of their own choice_." Malcolm paused, silently thanking Hoshi that she had prepared him so thoroughly for this mission. Additional cultural knowledge did come in handy. "And I choose this man and his children."

V'Lin stared at him, the lines around his mouth hardening. Malcolm realized that this was no longer a game; he had questioned the man's honor.

"You would quote the law to me, _demand_ that I give them to you?"

Malcolm refused to lower his eyes. "Yes, I would."

The Senator spat on the floor in front of Malcolm's feet. "You have no honor, K'tar, none of you offworlders do! I offer you a generous gift, and you-"

He took a deep breath. "Leave my house. Take your slave and the two brats and go. I want nothing to do with you, and I regret that I ever allowed you to come near my family in the first place. Now get out of my sight."

"As you wish, Senator." Malcolm kept his face calm and indifferent, even though it was hard for him not to grin. V'Lin knew that he had lost; he couldn't refuse Malcolm's request without compromising his personal honor, and by threatening that he wasn't going to sell the children he had wasted the chance to take Malcolm's money for them. He had underestimated his alien bodyguard, and he was well aware of it. The only thing left for him to do now was to play the offended host, and throw Malcolm out of his house. Not a very satisfying option for someone who had just lost a considerable sum of money.

The man and his children had watched the exchange silently, and Malcolm saw the father clutching his children tightly, his eyes bearing the haunted look of someone who has just woken up from a nightmare. It touched something within Malcolm, and he quickly turned away.

"Come," he said, not looking back as he walked towards the huge double doors at the far end of the hall. His luggage - a single bag with his clothes and personal items - was still where he'd left it when he had gone to attend the farewell ceremony. He bent down to pick it up, and almost bumped into the blond man who had been about to do the same. For a brief moment, neither of them moved. Then Malcolm stepped back, ignoring the surprised look in the blue eyes.

Watching the man lift up the bag, he mentally kicked himself for his stupid mistake. Carrying luggage was a servants' job, and no Kareedian master would ever dream of doing it himself. Malcolm cast a quick glance over his shoulder and found to his relief that the hall was empty except for the guards, who, as usual, kept their eyes straight ahead. Thankfully, the Senator had not been here to watch his little lapse. The only one who had noticed was his new "servant", and except for the brief flash of surprise the man never let on that he found something strange about Malcolm's behavior.

The little boy tugged at his father's sleeve. "Where're we going, Daddy?"

"I don't know, Sammy."

Malcolm noticed that both the man and the girl had thrown him brief, anxious looks when the child had spoken, as if they expected him to disapprove. Sammy, however, had no such inhibitions, tugging even harder at the man's sleeve.

"Are we going to fly in a flitter?" he asked excitedly. Despite his good intentions to stick to his role, Malcolm smiled down at the little boy.

"That's right," he said. "Let's get going, shall we?"

"Yay!" The boy practically hopped up and down with enthusiasm. "Did you hear that, Sara? We're gonna fly in a flitter! We're-"

"Sammy," his father admonished, giving Malcolm another nervous side glance. The fear Malcolm had seen in his eyes when V'Lin had threatened to sell the children was still there; fear that Malcolm might suddenly change his mind and decide to leave them behind, after all.

"Let's go," he repeated, knowing that this was the best reassurance he could give. For now, it was necessary not to do or say anything that might give away that he wasn't your usual Kareedian master.

They left the building, Sara and her father following him silently down the stairs that led to the huge courtyard in front of the Senator's villa. Sammy circled them like an excited puppy, commenting on everything that caught his interest.

"Look what the water's doing, Daddy!"

"That's a fountain," his father said, catching the boy by the back of his ragged shirt a second before he toppled headfirst into the basin. "You don't want to do that, you'll get yourself all wet."

Like her brother, Sara eyed the fountain with great interest, but then she threw Malcolm a brief glance and looked back down at her feet. She was clearly afraid of him.

Finally, Sammy's father managed to pull his son away from the water, and they continued their way to the back of the yard where Malcolm had parked his flitter. Sammy's eyes widened.

"Is that _your_ flitter?" he asked Malcolm, his eyes still fixed on the huge, streamlined craft. Malcolm smiled. The boy's excitement was contagious.

"Not exactly," he said. "I've rented it for the time of my stay, and I've got to give it back when I - when we leave."

"What's "rented"?"

"Sammy." The blond man took his son's hand, and gave Malcolm an apologetic look. The little boy didn't seem to mind that no one answered his question, and climbed inside the flitter the moment Malcolm opened the hatch.

"Look, Daddy, there're chairs in here! Can I sit up front? Please?"

Following his daughter, the man started to climb inside as well. "Where do you want me to put the bag, sir?"

Malcolm closed the hatch behind himself. "Put it down somewhere over there. Thanks."

A moment's silence followed, and Malcolm cursed inwardly. Mistake number two. Masters didn't thank their servants.

Once he had the three of them safely settled on the seats behind the pilot chair (Sammy had agreed to move to the back, on the condition that he got the seat next to the window), Malcolm bent over the controls to get the boosters started. Concentrating on his task, he tried to ignore the weirdness of the situation - in fact, he had been doing so ever since the ceremony. It seemed that things were slowly slipping out of his hands, and there was nothing he could do but stand by and watch it happen. Sure, he had completed his mission, had not been caught and identified as a spy working for the Vulcans, and no one had dragged him off to rot in jail. But this had never been part of the plan. His orders had been to interact with as few Kareedians as possible, avoid any personal contact, and interfere with no one's business but his own. The Vulcans had been rather emphatic on that point, and Malcolm could just imagine what they were going to say when he returned with his very own personal slave and two children in tow. No, this had not been part of the plan, and Malcolm had no idea what he was going to do with the quiet man and the two children who seemed to accept the idea of him being their master without so much as a question. He hadn't foreseen this, and things that couldn't be foreseen or planned tended to make him nervous.

Still, the Vulcans could hardly expect him to leave the children behind, could they. Malcolm held on to that thought, reassuring himself that this had actually been his only choice. The _right_ choice. And the fact that the human conception of "right" didn't always agree with the Vulcans' opinion on that matter couldn't change that. You just didn't leave children behind. For no reason whatsoever.

"Daddy..." A whisper stirred him out of his thoughts, and Malcolm realized that this time it was the little girl who had spoken. Keeping his eyes straight ahead, he pretended not to listen as she continued.

"Daddy, you're going to stay with us, aren't you?" Her thickened voice told Malcolm that she was on the brink of tears. "They- they said something about-"

"Hush, honey." In the rearview mirror, Malcolm saw the man pull his daughter close. "Everything's okay. I'm going to stay with you, and I'm not going to leave you. Ever."

Sara looked up at her father. "Promise?"

"Promise." He smiled, and they both turned to Sammy who was excitedly pointing at something outside.

"Look at the houses, Sara! They must be a million meters high!"

The girl smiled at her brother, though a little shakily, and nodded. "I bet they are."

Malcolm was surprised and touched. He wouldn't have expected this kind of "adult" reaction of most teenagers, let alone a child of her age. Punching away at the navigation controls with a little more force than necessary, he decided that there was no way he was going to leave these people behind, Vulcans be damned. But he was going to have to be very careful about his next steps. As an undercover agent, he was always in danger of being caught, and he wasn't going to endanger three more people by letting them in on the situation. Even - and Malcolm sighed inwardly at the thought - even if it meant that he had to play the role of the master a little longer than he had originally planned. Except for the fact that he not planned any of this, of course.

Malcolm looked in the rearview mirror and found that the man was watching him. Just as well. At least he wouldn't have to address him as "Hey you", or whatever it was that the Kareedians usually called their servants.

"You look human," he said without preamble, hoping he was doing this right. He wasn't really sure how the man expected to be talked to. "Where were you born?"

"On Earth, sir," the man said, and suddenly Malcolm noticed that the UT was still online, but not translating anymore. The man was talking English - in a slow, careful way, making sure he picked the right words - but it was English nonetheless, with a faint, drawling accent that Malcolm recognized but could not quite put his finger on. Malcolm didn't know why he was so surprised - "Sara" and "Sammy" were human names, after all, and V'Lin had been right when he had said that the man looked like "one of his own kind". They were a long way from Earth, but it wasn't as though the crew of the Enterprise were the first humans to be out here. The first ones to be out here of their own free will, but that was another matter.

"And the children?"

"They weren't born on Earth, but they're human as well."

Malcolm nodded, digesting this piece of information, then, wondering why he hadn't thought of this before, he threw a brief glance over his shoulder.

"What's your name?"

The man hesitated. "I... I don't really have a name, sir."

Malcolm startled. "You don't have a name?"

"I don't know, sir. I don't think so." The man met his eyes. "Back where I lived before, everybody called me Sev."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	3. Chapter 2

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: M

AN: Thanks to all of you who reviewed Chapter 1!

Othrilis (thank you, I will!), Tata (glad you like it, and I promise you'll find at least two chapters when you're back ;-). Yes, Mal's mission on that planet is finished, he's going back to Enterprise now), Gabi (Wie kommst du denn auf Trip? Hmmmm... ;-) ), firebirdgirl (yeah, well, it's not exactly the same as my last story, but similar in some aspects, I think), Roaring Mice (thanks ;-)!), The Libran Iniquity (Yes, there're two or three stories like that, and they made me wonder how it would work the other way around... naja, wir werden sehen ;-)!), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (Great! How soon is soon... okay, I'll stop getting on your nerves, sorry ;-). I'm glad you like it, keep telling me what you think, please!), Ocean (you're right, I admit it seems a little strange at first, but it's going to be explained later on in the story), stage manager (thank you!), JadziaKathryn (I'm glad you kept reading, and I hope you'll like how it turns out), Parisfan (thank you!), Rinne (thanks!), JennMel (that's a good thing to hear :-) ), Exploded Pen ("an all round good egg" - I like that!), bluedana (thank you; I didn't want Malcolm's character to deviate too much from the show, so I'm glad you say so)

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Chapter 2

"I'm too tired to walk. You have to carry me, Daddy."

Sammy had slid down in his seat so that his feet were almost touching the back of the pilot chair. His face pulled into a sulking frown, he made no move to join his sister and the two men who were waiting outside the hatch.

"Come on, Sammy, I know you're not that tired."

"I am!" Sammy pushed his lower lip out, and his eyes showed the first signs of coming tears. "My legs are all tingly and my butt aches. And I'm sooo tired!"

"Sammy..."

Malcolm decided that right now he didn't care whether carrying luggage was a servants' job or not. It was dark and starting to drizzle, and he wanted to get inside. Taking his bag from Sev's hand, he gestured at Sammy.

"I think someone needs a lift here," he said, smiling to let him know that he had taken no offence. Sev hesitated, and Sammy began to whine again.

"Dah-dee!"

Sighing, Sammy's father crawled back through the hatch to pick up the sleepy child.

"Well, come on, pumpkin."

Sammy hid his face in Sev's neck, and Malcolm breathed an inward sigh of relief. For a moment, it had looked as if the boy, tired and cranky from more than five hours of driving, was going to throw a little tantrum to round off a perfect day. Sara looked tired as well, but hadn't uttered a word of complaint.

As they walked towards the roadside hotel where Malcolm had decided they were going to stay for the night, he suddenly noticed the girl catching up with him.

"Please, sir," she said, timidly reaching for the bag, "I can take that."

Malcolm saw the look in her dark eyes, and realized that this wasn't about a little girl trying to be good and help. This was about a little girl desperately trying to prove that she was useful, that there was no need to get any bright ideas about giving her away. After a moment's hesitation, he handed her the bag.

"You sure it's not too heavy?" he asked when the child lifted it up.

Sara shook her head. "I've carried stuff much heavier than that, sir."

And looking at her arms, he could see that she was telling the truth.

The hotel's small lobby was empty except for the receptionist, who was deeply engrossed in a magazine with several scantily clad women on the cover. He looked up and quickly shoved the magazine under the counter, straightening up in his chair which gave a low creak.

"Can I help you..." His eyes traveled over the small group, and Malcolm saw a small frown appear on his face when he realized that none of them were Kareedian. Then, however, he took a look at their clothing and seemed to decide that Malcolm was the one to address. He was, after all, the only one wearing shoes. "Can I help you, sir?"

"We're planning to get back on the road tomorrow morning," Malcolm said. "We're going to leave early and really only need a place to sleep."

"There's a single room on the second floor, sir." The receptionist cast a glance at Sev and his children. "We'll put a few mattresses in the storeroom for your servants."

"Actually," Malcolm said, a little more sharply than he had intended, "I was hoping you'd have a room with a pull-out couch or something like that."

He could practically feel Sev's surprised look between his shoulderblades.

"First floor, room number 108, sir," the receptionist said, raising his left eyebrow as he pushed the key card towards Malcolm. "Please return the card at the reception before you leave."

_No, I'm going to flush it down the loo first thing tomorrow morning._ Malcolm bit his lip. "Thanks."

He took the card and walked off towards the stairs, pretending not to have heard the receptionist's muttered comment. "Offworlders."

Sev followed him, and Malcolm saw that Sammy had fallen asleep. The boy's head rested on his father's shoulder, and his mouth was slightly open, a small bubble of spit forming between his lips. Malcolm caught himself smiling at the sight and looked away, but not quickly enough for Sev not to have noticed. Again, the man seemed surprised, and Malcolm sighed inwardly.

I'm not doing a very good job of this.

Malcolm resisted the urge to take his bag from Sara as they walked up the stairs. It didn't seem right to him, having his personal belongings carried by a child; in a way, it made him feel like one of his colonial ancestors of several hundred years ago - a white _Sahib_ having a little Indian boy carry his bags and suitcases. Not a very flattering image. Malcolm was beginning to get uncomfortable with all of this, with the role he had been forced to assume and with the fact that he didn't really know how Sev and his family were going to fit into his plans. He had to get off planet, as soon and as quietly as possible, but how was he going to do so with two little children in tow? And, even more importantly, how was he going to do so without endangering these people?

They reached room 108, and Malcolm inserted the key card into the slot next to the door. A blue light lit up, and the door slid aside, the ceiling lamps inside automatically lighting up.

The room was not particularly spacious and the furniture had definitely seen better times, but it was going to fit their needs. On the right hand side, Malcolm saw a single bed covered with a bedspread that looked worn-out but clean. Opposite to it stood the Kareedian version of a pull-out couch, two blankets neatly stacked on top of it. Out of habit, Malcolm checked the window and saw that it could be locked. _Good._

As he turned back, he noticed that both Sev and his daughter were still standing next to the door, apparently unsure what to do. Sara was gripping the handle of Malcolm's bag as if she were afraid to let go of it.

"Well... make yourselves at home," Malcolm said a little helplessly. The girl looked up at her father.

"Are we going to sleep in _here_, Daddy?" she asked, her eyes widening as if the idea struck her as absurd. Instead of giving an answer, Sev looked at Malcolm with a strange expression on his face.

"Of course, where else would you sleep?" Malcolm wasn't sure what to make of their reaction. "Come on, let's set up the couch so you can put Sammy to bed."

"I can do that, sir," Sev said quickly and much in the same way Sara had offered to carry Malcolm's bag. He put his sleeping son down on the old stuffed chair next to the window, and began to examine the pull-out mechanism of the couch. It was obvious that he had never seen anything like it before, but it took him only a minute to figure it out. Soon, the couch was spread out, and Sev carefully laid Sammy down on it, unfolding one of the blankets and spreading it over the sleeping boy. Sammy sighed and put his thumb into his mouth, but he didn't wake up.

"Come on, honey." Smiling, Sev patted the mattress next to Sammy. "Time for bed."

Sara hesitated briefly, but then she lay down next to her brother and allowed her father to tuck her in as well. Malcolm noticed that both children were still wearing their clothes, and suddenly realized that their clothes - or rather rags - were really all that Sev's family had. They had no spare underwear, no comb, no toothbrushes. Malcolm wondered why he hadn't noticed before. Maybe because you just expected people to have these things.

"Are you going to stay here, Daddy?" Sara asked quietly, but with audible trepidation in her voice. Sev nodded and kissed her on the cheek.

"Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere. Promise, remember?"

The girl smiled wanly and closed her eyes. Malcolm watched as Sev gently brushed back a stray lock that had fallen into her face, smoothing away the small frown that creased her forehead. "Sleep now," he said quietly, and soon enough, Sara's breathing grew slow and even.

Malcolm, who had busied himself unpacking his things, saw that the child was asleep and came to a decision. He couldn't tell Sev exactly who he was without endangering the man's life, but there were still a few things Sev needed to know. Again, he found himself confronted with the problem how to begin a conversation - he still had no idea how to talk to the man.

"She asleep?" he asked finally, just to say _something_. Sev, still sitting on the edge of the couch, looked up. For some reason Malcolm couldn't fathom, he looked worried. Or maybe not really worried; he looked weary. Defeated, in a way. Malcolm had no idea why, but they needed to get this over with, and so he pushed on.

"The reason I'm asking is, I'd rather you not mention this to the children. You know there's-"

Malcolm stopped. Sev had bowed his head, and there was something about his posture that caught Malcolm's immediate attention.

"What's wrong?"

Sev did not look up. Malcolm, beginning to get worried, got up from the bed and crouched down next to him.

"Are you alright?"

At that, Sev raised his head, and Malcolm was startled to see the anguish on his face. When the man spoke, his voice was strained.

"Sir, you've been... very kind and generous. You saved my children and I can't begin to tell you how grateful I am. I'll do everything you say-"

"You don't have to-" Malcolm began, but Sev continued as if he hadn't heard him.

"-but I so wish..."

He trailed off. Malcolm, sensing his distress even though he didn't know the reason for it, rested a careful hand on the man's shoulder. Sev's muscles were tensed up as if he were going to jump up and run away any moment.

"What is it? What do you wish?"

Sev met his eyes. "I wish you wouldn't ask me to do that," he almost whispered.

"What do you mean?" Malcolm asked, but the words weren't out of his mouth yet when it suddenly started to make sense, in a twisted, nasty way. He had refused the receptionist's offer to put Sev and his family into the storeroom, had demanded that they stay with him when it was obviously a Kareedian custom that servants did not sleep in the same room as their masters, except... Malcolm felt sick, and disgusted with his own stupidity. How could he expect Sev to take this any other way? And now he had made that comment about not mentioning it to the children.

"Listen," he said, sounding a lot calmer than he felt. "I'm not asking you to do any such thing. I don't... that's not my cup of tea, either. All I was going to say is that I need to talk to you. It's... important, and that's why I don't want Sammy and Sara to know. They'll be safer that way."

While Malcolm had spoken, Sev's features had first relaxed in obvious relief, then his face took on an expression of shame. He bowed his head deeply, and Malcolm believed that he would have dropped to his knees again if not for the fact that he was already sitting down.

"Forgive me, sir. I had no right-"

"No, I'm the one who should apologize." Malcolm tightened his grip on Sev's shoulder. "Look at me, please. I feel uncomfortable when you do that." To put it mildly. Truth be told, it made him feel like a complete asshole. Hesitantly, Sev raised his eyes, and Malcolm continued.

"I realize now that when I said I wanted you and the children to sleep in here, you probably thought..."

Sev nodded, ashamed. "Servants usually don't sleep in the same room - or house - as their masters, except when their... services are required."

That was all he said, but the way he looked down at his hands told Malcolm that he knew only too well what kind of services Kareedians expected of their servants. Malcolm pressed his lips together, his anger partly directed towards the Kareedian society in general, partly towards himself. He had, of course, acted with the best intentions when he had insisted that Sev and his children sleep in his room; from what he had seen of the hotel so far, the store room would have been less than comfortable. Still, he had decided that for the moment he was going to stick to the role of the Kareedian master, and a Kareedian master wouldn't care whether his servants were comfortable or not. No wonder Sev had misinterpreted his actions.

"Listen," he said, hoping he was going to do this right. "We handle these things a little differently, back on my homeworld." Malcolm had no idea how much Sev knew about Earth and humans; not too much, from what he had seen so far, but he still hoped that the man wouldn't become suspicious. That was the last thing they needed right now, Sev questioning the role he had assumed. "Where I come from, it's not unusual for servants to sleep in the same room as their masters. I haven't been on Kareedia for very long, and I don't know much about their customs. I'm sorry."

"You don't have to apologize to me, sir." Sev seemed slightly taken aback. "You're..."

He trailed off, but Malcolm knew what he was thinking. _You're the master.The boss. The top dog. You don't have to apologize, and you don't have to explain. Stop acting so weirdly._

Malcolm sighed. Sev might look like "one of his own kind", but that didn't mean he thought like a human. He obviously wasn't used to being talked to or even recognized by his master, and the way Malcolm behaved confused him. Scared him, maybe. Still, Malcolm knew that he couldn't act the way Senator V'Lin had acted, kicking a man who was on his knees begging to keep his children. He had never been a good actor, and that was a thing he knew he just couldn't do.

"Well," he said, "the thing I wanted to talk to you about... I'm going to leave the planet in a few days. I'll be meeting a friend of mine - a colleague - but the thing is, I can't do so in a public place. I'm working for a... a secret organization, and it'd be too dangerous. What I'm saying is, I'm going to return the flitter tomorrow, and then we're going to have to walk. It's quite a long walk, I'm afraid."

Sev nodded slowly. "We're hindering your mission," he said in a matter-of-fact tone. Malcolm bit his lip. He couldn't deny it; Sev and his children did hinder his mission.

"Yes," he admitted. "In a way, you are. It's going to be difficult, having the children along."

The look of panic Malcolm had seen before reappeared in Sev's eyes. "You're not...

"No," Malcolm said firmly before the man could continue. "If that were my intention, I could have left them at the Senator's house. We're going to take them along, but it's not going to be easy."

Sev nodded in obvious relief. "That's alright, sir. They're used to being outside."

Malcolm realized that this was another understatement. Because of their dark skin, the children's tan didn't show as much as their father's, but their more or less wild appearance suggested that they were not only used to being outside; they seemed hardly used to being inside.

Malcolm knew that he shouldn't be asking, but the man's offhand comment had piqued his curiosity. "What did you do before... before the Senator decided you were going to go with me?"

Sev paused, obviously surprised by Malcolm's longwinded way of saying "before you were given to me". "I worked on a farm, sir."

"Farm?" Malcolm frowned. The Senator's estate was located in the city, and Malcolm knew that there was no agriculture anywhere in the near vicinity.

"Yes," Sev confirmed. "Senator's V'Lin's father owns several farms. The Senator asked to have me sent to the city so I could be given to you. There was no one to look after the children, so they allowed me to take them along."

"Their mother?" Malcolm asked quietly.

Sev didn't seem to be bothered by the question. "She died several years ago, sir."

Malcolm knew that he was prying and should stop asking these question - he was pretty sure Kareedians never bothered to ask their servants _anything_ - but for some reason, he found himself wanting to know more about this strange man who was clearly human on the outside, but more alien in his thoughts and attitudes than some of the Vulcans and Andorians Malcolm had met.

"And the children?" he asked. "Did they go to school?"

Sev looked at him as if to check whether he was serious. "No, sir," he said carefully. "They also worked on the farm."

Malcolm looked over at the sleeping children and remembered Sara's comment about carrying things much heavier than his bag. He tried to picture little Sammy "working on the farm", and found that he couldn't do it. The boy couldn't be older than four years, five at the most; back on Earth, he would have just started kindergarten.

As he looked back at Sev, he saw the man stifling a yawn and decided to end the questioning for today. They were both tired, and it didn't seem like this conversation was getting them very far. Sev seemed confused by Malcolm's questions, and Malcolm realized that he hadn't really learned anything new about the man sitting before him, except that he had worked on a farm for some time. But these things could wait until they were back in the safety of Enterprise. Right now, it was more important that they were all well rested for tomorrow's walk, which was going to be no picnic; Malcolm had no doubts about that.

Suddenly he remembered something, and a moment later could have kicked himself for his thoughtlessness. Here he was, thinking that he could never be as cruel as Senator V'Lin, and at the same time he didn't waste a thought on the barest necessities of the people he was responsible for.

"Are you hungry?" he asked Sev, still berating himself that the thought hadn't occurred to him before. "The kids must have been starving when they went to bed. Why didn't you say something?"

This time, he saw a small smile cross Sev's face before he answered. "That's alright, sir. I'm sure they can wait until tomorrow morning."

Malcolm took a look at the man - a close look, this time - and saw that except for his muscular arms and legs he was very thin; too thin, almost. Coming to think of it, the kids didn't look very well-nourished, either. Malcolm realized that he had just learned another thing about Sev's family; they were not only used to hard work and being outside, but also to going to bed hungry.

"We'll have breakfast at the restaurant before we leave," he said mostly to himself, and made a mental note not to forget about it, even if they were in a hurry. Sev, in the meantime, had pulled off his shirt and squeezed himself into the small space the children had left. He didn't seem to mind that there was no blanket left for him.

"Wait." Malcolm pulled the bedspread off his own bed and held it out to him. "I don't need two blankets."

Sev hesitated. "Sir..."

"Take it." Malcolm decided to make use of his newly acquired authority for once. "That's an order."

"Thank you, sir." Sitting up in order to wrap himself into the blanket, Sev let his eyes rest on Malcolm for a moment. "You're very kind."

Embarrassed, Malcolm turned away and busied himself with pulling back the sheets. "Nonsense. I really don't need a spare blanket, so why shouldn't you take it."

A Kareedian, Malcolm supposed, would have come up with at least ten good reasons why not, but he wasn't Kareedian. He was human, and even though he had been forced to take on the role of the master, he'd be damned if he was going to treat these people any worse than he had to.

Pulling off his Kareedian soldier outfit, Malcolm decided to skip the washing and teeth brushing routine for once. He wasn't usually in the habit of doing so, but today all he wanted to do was lie down and close his eyes. And truth be told, he wouldn't be feeling very comfortable, going through his usual routine when Sev and his children didn't even have a toothbrush.

Dimming the lights, Malcolm crawled under his sheets and looked over at Sev, who seemed comfortable enough despite the fact that he was all but falling off the edge of the couch. Cats and children, Malcolm remembered someone saying. The smaller they are, the more of the bed they will take up. He smiled involuntarily, glad that in the semidarkness Sev wasn't able to see it.

"Good night," he said quietly. As he had expected, a short, surprised pause followed, then:

"Good night, sir."

Malcolm rolled over and was soon asleep, the day's excitement taking its toll of him.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	4. Chapter 3

Title: Thursdays's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for reviewing Chapter 2!

Firebirdgirl (thanks for the e-mail :-)! You're right about Trip's skills coming in handy...), bunsdarien (the "begging motion" must work, here's the next chapter ;-) ), Rinne (thank you!), Gabi (tja, hier war mal wieder die absolute Planung am Werk... aber diesmal hab ich's nicht vergessen!), The One Forgotten (glad you like it, I'll be looking forward to your reviews!), JadziaKathryn (it does make a nice picture, doesn't it ;-)?), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (good point, I didn't think of that), The Libran Iniquity (there -is- always a next time, that's right... I might actually write Slash one day :P! Aber nicht in dieser Geschichte, das stimmt), Virgo (thank you! the thing about Sev (a.k.a. Trip ;-)?) will be explained in more detail later on...), JennMel (thank you... I loved writing the kids ;-) ), Exploded Pen ("kindergarten" does sound funny ;-); I like it since it's one of the few words English borrowed from German), Luna (your review left me with a big, happy smile on my face :-)... thank you!), stage manager (here goes ;-)!), dani-lyn (thank you! )

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Chapter 3

"Daddy, guess what, guess what!"

Malcolm woke to the sound of a thud followed by an excited voice, and at first he had no idea what was going on. A moment later he realized that the voice belonged to Sammy, who seemed to be no longer tired and cranky, but very much awake.

"Come on, Daddy, wake up!"

Still somewhat disoriented, Malcolm rolled over and saw that the first rays of morning sunshine were only just beginning to fill the room with a dim light. Looking over at the couch, he saw Sammy sitting on his father's chest and surmised that the thud he had heard had been the sound of Sammy landing on top of Sev.

"Wake up, Daddy!"

Sev blinked, and a moment later gasped for air when Sammy started to hop up and down on top of him.

"Daddy, guess what, we're sleeping in a bed, a real one, and next door there's a bathtub and I found a book in the cupboard with lots of pictures in it, can I keep it, Daddy?"

"Hey, slow down, pumpkin." Sev caught his son around the waist and lifted him off his chest. "And turn down the volume, we don't want to-"

"Are we going to stay here, Daddy?" Sammy seemed enthusiastic at the idea, continuing to bounce up and down. "Is this where we live now?"

Sara looked up from the magazine she'd been looking at. "This is a hotel," she told her little brother, and Malcolm half expected her to raise an eyebrow at him. "We're only staying here over night."

"It's not night, it's morning," Sammy said decidedly. Sev interfered before the argument could escalate.

"What are you looking at, honey?" he asked, and Sara held up her magazine. Malcolm squinted, but he couldn't make out the picture on the cover.

"It's a book about food," Sarah said. "Like the one Miss Elin had, but the pictures are better. I think it tells you how to cook things. Do you think anyone minds if I keep it? We can share it," she added quickly when Sammy opened his mouth to protest.

In a way, Malcolm felt reluctant to give up pretending that he was still asleep - on their own, Sev and Sara seemed a lot more at ease than he had ever seen them, and Malcolm regretted to spoil their mood. Still, it was just as well that Sammy had woken them so early; it was going to be a long day, and the sooner they got on their way the better.

"Good morning," he said, and three heads turned around to look at him. Sara and her father froze immediately, apparently expecting a rebuke of some sort. Only Sammy kept smiling, still bouncing on the bed whose springs were beginning to creak with the strain.

"Hello," he said, and Malcolm smiled at the boy.

"Good morning, sir," Sev added carefully. "Did we wake you up?"

"That's alright," Malcolm said, in a deliberately off hand tone. "I had to get up anyway."

He noticed Sev and Sara relax somewhat, and sighed inwardly. He was fooling himself, thinking that last night's conversation had eased the situation between them in any way. Sev might think of him as a kind, somewhat strange man, but there was no doubt that he couldn't really bring himself to trust him. Remembering the awkward misunderstanding caused by his decision to have Sev and his children sleep in his room, Malcolm realized that his behavior - his friendliness, his strange questions - must have struck Sev as odd, and therefore would have aroused his suspicion. He knew that his children - and he himself - were at Malcolm's mercy, and if his new master suddenly changed his mind, then there was nothing he could do. That was the point - there was absolutely nothing he could do to protect his children. Malcolm could understand very well why Sev was keeping his distance. All the more, he found himself wishing that they were back on Enterprise where this whole unpleasant masquerade could end.

"How about you and the children use the bathroom first?" Malcolm suggested, wincing at his overly hearty tone. "I'll only take a quick shower, and then we can go and see if we can find us some breakfast."

Sev only stared at him. Surprised, Sara looked up at her father.

"We get to use the bathroom, Daddy?"

_Damn._ Malcolm bit his lip. Another mistake. But it was too late to take it back.

"Sure you do." Going against all his ideas of an officer's dignity, Malcolm pulled a face at Sammy and whispered conspiratorially: "We don't want you smelling like piggies, do we?"

The little boy didn't disappoint him, giggling and raising his hands to his mouth. The momentary tension was broken, and Malcolm breathed an inward sigh of relief.

Sev had been watching the exchange in silence, and when he caught Malcolm's eyes, the look on his face had changed from wariness into... something else. Malcolm wasn't sure what to make of it, but part of him felt that his brief interaction with Sammy had had more of an effect than all of his earlier rhetoric.

"What's a piggy, Daddy?" Sammy asked his father on the way to the bathroom, and Malcolm was sure that he saw Sev smile in response.

Fifteen minutes later they were back, the children wrapped in two of the hotel's towels and looking like two little ghosts with brown faces. Sev brought up the rear, carrying the children's folded-up clothes. His hair was still damp from the shower.

"Watch me, Daddy!" Sammy, who seemed to be excited to the point of bouncing off the walls, threw away his towel and jumped onto the couch, beginning to hop up and down. Again, Malcolm noticed how painfully thin the little boy was. His ribs stood out starkly, and the places that were usually covered by his clothes were of a noticeably lighter shade of brown than the rest of his skin.

"Sammy, don't!" Too busy to notice Malcolm's look, Sev caught his son around the waist before he could do any more damage to the bed springs. "No jumping on the bed, okay, partner?"

Sammy squirmed to escape his grip, and a moment later squealed with delight when his father grabbed him by the ankles and held him upside down. When he became aware of Malcolm's surprised look, Sev shrugged apologetically.

"It usually calms him down."

Malcolm didn't know whether or not it was on purpose that this time, Sev didn't tag the "sir" to his answer, but found that he liked it a lot better that way. He grinned, and for a moment all tension disappeared from the other man's eyes. Then Sammy squealed again, and carefully, Sev lowered him onto the couch and wrapped him in his towel. The brief change of perspective did seem to have a calming effect on the little boy; mimicking his sister's actions, he used the towel to dry his hair and pulled his ragged shirt over his head. Then he grinned triumphantly in Malcolm's direction.

"Now you're the only one who smells like a piggy!"

Both Sara and her father froze, but Malcolm couldn't help grinning. "That's right, and it's time I did something about it."

Heading towards the bathroom, he heard Sammy's voice: "But Daddy, he said so himself!"

Malcolm made sure that the bathroom door was closed before he burst out laughing.

--------

It was still early in the morning when they went downstairs, and the hotel's small dining room was deserted except for an elderly Kareedian couple seated in the corner next to the window. They both looked up when Malcolm entered with Sev and the children in tow, and it was clear that they did not approve of the company. In a low voice, the man said something to the woman who looked the children up and down and wrinkled her nose. Malcolm bit his lip and hoped that Sev hadn't noticed.

Sammy and Sara, of course, were far too excited to notice any of the disapproval radiating from the elderly couple. They looked around the room with wide eyes, and Malcolm saw Sara take her father's hand.

"Sir..."

Malcolm turned around to meet the eyes of a young Kareedian who, judging from his waiter's attire, was the one responsible for the hotel's restaurant.

"Can I help you, sir?"

Malcolm nodded. "Could you bring us the menu, please?"

Uncertainly, the man looked at Sev and his children. "Sir..."

"Is there a problem?" Malcolm used his best "polite-yet-dangerous" tone (which, according to his colleagues, would work even on a Klingon), and the man seemed to crumple under his stare.

"No, sir. No problem at all." He gestured at a table on his right. "Please, take a seat. I'll be with you in a minute."

The children looked at their father, and Sev, in turn, glanced at Malcolm. "Sir, are you sure this is a good idea?" he asked quietly. "I don't think they want us in here. Me and the children, I mean."

"I don't care what they do or do not want," Malcolm said sharply. "The children are hungry, and they need breakfast. If anyone has a problem with that, then they can bloody well walk right out of here."

He had spoken loud enough for the couple to hear him, and the looks they shot him in response could hardly be called civilized. _Well, life's tough, guys. Get a helmet._

They sat down, Malcolm with his back to the couple who were still muttering among themselves. Sara and Sammy perched on their chairs, admiring the cheap table decoration and gaping openly when the waiter returned with the menus. Rather than handing them out, the young man simply left them on the table and hurried over to the elderly man, who was signaling impatiently.

Malcolm handed one of the menus to Sev who looked rather uncomfortable, but took it after a moment's hesitation. "Thank you, sir."

Sara looked up at her father. "But, Daddy-"

"Shh, honey," Sev said, and for some reason blushed slightly. "That's okay."

There was something final to his statement, and Sara seemed to understand, her eyes resting on him for a moment before she looked away. Malcolm had no idea what this was all about, but at the moment he had other problems to deal with. He could, of course, use the UT to read the menu, but the names of the meals still didn't make a lot of sense to him. And no matter what people said about British eating habits, "pickled ice rock" didn't sound like something he would enjoy for breakfast. At the Senator's house, he had eaten with the rest of the security staff, and their meals had consisted mainly some highly nutritious grub that tasted of nothing. Malcolm had no idea what normal Kareedian food tasted like, but compared to the stuff at V'Lin's place it could only get better.

"I think I need a little help here," he admitted finally, tucking away the UT after a final useless attempt to decipher its translations. "Is there anything on this menu I can eat without regretting it for the rest of the week?"

His joke fell flat, but then, he hadn't expected anyone to laugh. Sev stared down at the menu in front of him, and Malcolm saw him chewing his lower lip almost frantically.

"Um... you could always try the... _st'vin_ soup?" It came out more like a question than an answer. "It's what most people have for breakfast."

Malcolm pulled out the UT again, and sure enough, one of the first items mentioned on the menu was _st'vin_. Checking the ingredients, however, Malcolm realized that he'd better keep away from that particular dish if he didn't want to end up wheezing and gagging all over the place.

"Sounds good, but I'm afraid I'm allergic to most fruits." He checked the menu again. "Do they have anything that doesn't contain fruit acid?"

Sev looked back down at the menu and Malcolm saw that the blush had returned, this time spreading all over his face and engulfing his ears. And suddenly he realized what was going on.

"You can't read, can you?" he asked quietly, and Sev shook his head, still not meeting his eyes.

"Only a little." He spoke so softly that Malcolm had to strain his ears to understand him. "What I taught myself. But..."

He trailed off, but Malcolm could guess what he had been about to say. Sev had taught himself how to read a little, but it wasn't enough to read complicated things like the names of the meals. Seeing how embarrassed the man was, Malcolm was careful not to let any of his feelings show. When Sev read pity in his eyes, it would wound his pride even deeper.

"Well," he said, his own voice sounding a little too cheerful in his ears, "how about we work together? I read out the names to you, and you tell me what the hell "pickled ice rock" is supposed to be."

After some thorough research and a few surprises on Malcolm's part (the pickled rock turned out to be the Kareedian equivalent of pancakes), everyone had their breakfast standing in front of them, and Sammy was so excited at having his food brought to the table for him that he almost forgot to eat any of it. Sev automatically grabbed whatever glass or mug the little boy was knocking over in his enthusiasm, but other than that he kept his eyes on his plate, never looking at Malcolm as he ate. Several times, Malcolm opened his mouth to say something, but then closed it again. Truth was, he had no idea what to say_. "Hey, I'm sorry you can't read, want to tell me about it?"_ sounded stupid even to his own ears. Still, he wondered what kind of life the man sitting across from him had led. Back on Earth, things had returned to normal - relatively speaking, of course - about thirty years ago, and illiteracy wasn't one of the problems that mankind had to deal with today. As a boy, Malcolm had attended the reopened schools together with all the other kids of his generation, and read both Vulcan and several of the remaining Earth languages fluently. He had never before met an adult of his age who couldn't read. Then again, Malcolm had never met one of the Lost Ones, either.

They finished their breakfast in silence, and Malcolm decided not to mention Sev's illiteracy again, unless the other man brought the topic up himself. Sev was far from stupid, and maybe that made it even harder for him to accept that he lacked such a fundamental skill. Malcolm guessed there were many slaves on Kareedia who couldn't read, but not many who felt ashamed about it.

When the last piece of "pickled rock" was gone and the children had polished the crumbs off their plates, Malcolm decided that it was time to go. Sammy made a grab for the centerpiece decoration, but after a stern look from his father he meekly put it back on the table. The elderly man next to the window shook his head, and his wife muttered something in an unfriendly tone of voice.

Ignoring them, Malcolm led his small group out into the reception hall where he'd left his bag. The receptionist took his key card without so much as a look, pushing the bill towards him which Malcolm signed with the name he had adopted for his brief interlude at the Senator's house. His bodyguard persona had a bank account somewhere in the city, and there was more than enough money to pay for bed and breakfast.

"Are we going to fly in the flitter again?" Sammy asked as they left the hotel. He didn't seem as enthusiastic at the idea as he had before, and Malcolm found himself sympathizing with the little boy. His own back was still aching from his driving marathon of the previous day.

"Only for a short while," he said as he opened the hatch for them to climb inside. "But first we're going to have to talk about what we do next."

"Sir?" Sev threw him a questioning look.

Malcolm closed the hatch behind himself. "Well, I told you it's quite a long walk to the meeting point. We'd be alright between the two of us, but there's no way the children can manage the distance in less than three or four hours."

Sev waited for him to continue.

"I think it might be best if I take you and the children as close to the meeting point as possible, then turn around and bring the flitter back. You're going to have to wait there for a while, but I believe it's a better idea than having the children walk all the way."

Malcolm watched Sev's face, hoping the man understood what Malcolm was trying to tell him. He was well aware of the fact that he was giving Sev a chance to run away, if the man decided to do so. Of course, escaping with two small children in tow was foolishness, but Malcolm wanted Sev to understand that he was free to choose. And if Sev decided that this was his homeworld, the place he was used to and where he wanted to stay, then Malcolm wasn't going to force him to leave.

Sev answered his look, then slowly nodded his head. "I understand, sir."

"Good." Malcolm turned to the navigation controls and watched the man's face in the rearview mirror. _I hope you do._

_----------_

Twenty minutes later they arrived at the edge of the forest where Malcolm and Archer had agreed to meet. Malcolm wished he could have left the flitter where it was and set off for the meeting point right away, but he knew his orders. No traces, the Vulcans had been very clear on that point. And leaving his rented aircar out here for anyone to find would certainly arouse suspicion.

The children bolted out of the flitter as soon as he had opened the hatch, and Malcolm smiled at their excitement. Even Sara seemed to have forgotten about her anxiety and chased her brother around the flitter in a wild game of tag. Sammy squealed and hid behind his father's legs.

"Can we stay here, please, Daddy?" Sara came to a halt, only slightly out of breath. "Just a little longer?"

Malcolm smiled. "Actually, you're going to _have_ to stay here and wait for me. I'll be back in about two hours."

Her face lit up, and Malcolm realized that their enforced stay in the woods was probably the closest thing to an outing these children had ever been on. Somehow, "working on the farm" didn't sound like it included much spare time for playing.

He looked at Sev. "You alright with that?"

"Yes sir." The man met his gaze. "We'll be right here waiting for you."

For a moment their eyes locked, and Malcolm didn't really know what to make of the intensity he read on the other man's face.

"Good," he said. "I'll try to be back as soon as I can."

He climbed back into the flitter and closed the hatch. Briefly, he considered leaving his bag with Sev so he wouldn't have to carry it all the way back to the forest, but then decided against it. Of course, the microchips with the information he had gathered were safely stored away in the soles of his boots; the bag only contained his clothes and a few personal items. Still, he had strict orders not to leave anything behind, and Malcolm wasn't going to take any chances. He had no way of knowing if his bag - and Sev - would still be there when he returned.

Malcolm sighed, and involuntarily increased the flitter's speed, wondering if he was doing the right thing.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	5. Chapter 4

Title: Thursdays's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks to all of you who reviewed Chapter 3!

JadziaKathryn (thank you! there are a lot more chapters to come, and you'll get to know in more detail about all of those things), Rinne (thank you!), Gabi (und was machst du morgens viertel vor sieben schon im Internet, hmmm ;-)? Tja, wie geht's jetzt weiter... schau ma mal!), JennMel (thanks, he was definitely fun to write ;-)!), The Libran Iniquity (Yeah, one day I'll join the Evil Slash Writers... ;-) ), Exploded Pen ("annoyed" is exactly how he feels, I guess), stage manager (don't worry, the story isn't going to stop for quite a while yet), RoaringMice (there'll definitely be more about that!), The One Forgotten (thank you! please keep telling me what you think!), Virgo (thanks! There'll be more about Mal's and Trip's past later on), firebirdgirl (sorry about the cliffie! Happy reading ;-)!)

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Chapter 4

When Malcolm returned two and a half hours later, Sev and his children were gone. Malcolm wasn't really surprised; after all, he had practically offered the man the chance to run away. Still, finding the place empty was more of a shock than he would have expected. Guilt was also part of it; of course, he had only acted with the best intentions when he had left the decision to Sev. On the other hand, the man wasn't used to deciding for himself; he was used to receiving orders and doing what he was told.

Malcolm quickly dismissed the thought. Only because the man was a slave (Malcolm didn't like to think of him in that way, but that was what he was) didn't mean he couldn't think for himself. He had made his decision, and Malcolm had to accept it. Humans did not believe that one person could own another and force them to go somewhere they didn't want to go. His own feelings of responsibility had nothing to do with it. Sev was a grown man and had the right to decide for himself.

Firmly telling himself these things, Malcolm gripped handle of his bag harder and continued towards the forest.

_I'm not going to search for him,_ he decided._ There's no reason why he should have left, except that he wanted to get away. I-_

Malcolm stopped short. A few meters ahead, on the ground next to where the underbrush began, lay Sara's magazine. The little girl had hardly ever laid it aside ever since she had found it back in their hotel room, keeping it next to her plate at breakfast and clutching it as if it were her most precious possession. Now, however, it lay crumpled in the grass, and when Malcolm picked it up he saw a muddy smear across the open page. A smear that looked like a boot print.

Malcolm was still trying to digest the implications of his find when he heard someone scream. It was a shrill, piercing sound, and loud enough to startle Malcolm into action. He dropped the magazine and his bag, pulled out his weapon and began to jog in the direction from where the sound had come. It had been a child screaming, no doubt about that, and Malcolm was sure that it had been Sara's voice.

The sound continued, now changing into a loud, desperate sobbing. Malcolm picked up his pace. The voice did belong to Sara, and now he could also hear what she was saying.

"Let him go! Please, don't do that! Please!"

A man laughed as if in response and said something in a harsh voice. A moment later Sara screamed again, and Malcolm gripped the handle of his weapon harder.

After about fifty meters, the edge of the forest gave way to a clearing surrounded by large bushes. Branches whipped into his face as he ran through the thicket, but Malcolm didn't really notice. The screaming had turned into sobbing again, and when he finally stepped into the open, Malcolm stopped dead in his tracks at the scene unfolding in front of his eyes.

A large, streamlined craft stood a few meters away from the edge of the forest, and he recognized the symbol on its side as the emblem of the Kareedian police. Next to it he saw three uniformed men, one of them holding a fourth man whose arms he had brutally twisted onto his back. When the tallest of the three raised a hand to strike him, Malcolm saw that the captive was Sev. His face was covered with blood, and the way he hung in the police officers' grip told Malcolm that this had been going on for quite a while.

"NO!" Before the man could bring his fist down on Sev's face, Sara, her face tearstained and twisted, hurled herself at the Kareedian and began to pummel him with her small fists. "Leave him alone!"

The men laughed and the officer who had been about to punch Sev in the face stepped back, giving the girl a savage kick in the stomach that sent her sprawling on the ground.

"Shut up, brat!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?"

At the sound of Malcolm's voice, the three officers turned around. Sara, scrambling back to her feet, met his eyes in a silent plea of help. Sammy seemed too terrified to make a sound, clinging to his sister while tears ran down his cheeks.

"Who are you?" the officer in charge demanded to know, laying a hand on his weapon holster.

Malcolm hesitated, then lowered his own weapon and tucked it away. He wasn't going to provoke a gunfight when the children were in shooting range of the police.

"I am K'tar Sarn'ee, of Senator V'Lin's personal guard," he said haughtily, the way the Senator's high-ranking officers had talked to their subordinates. "Do you want to see my ID?"

The man's gaze traveled over his uniform, then back up to his face. "No, K'tar. That's alright. Is there something we can do for you?"

"Yes." Malcolm looked at Sev who was still hanging in the Kareedian's grip. "Release this man. Now."

The officer hesitated. "Does he belong to you, sir?"

"Yes, he does." Malcolm let impatience creep into his voice. "Are you going to let him go or not?"

The Kareedian half-turned his head, and the man who was holding Sev gave him a hard push that sent him to his knees. The officer in charge roughly pulled him back to his feet, holding his left arm in a vise grip as he led him over to Malcolm.

Malcolm tried not to let the shock show on his face when he saw just how badly the Kareedians had beaten him up. Both of Sev's eyes were swollen shut, and his lip was split in several places, oozing blood that trickled down his chin. Still, he met Malcolm's eyes, as if trying to tell him something.

"He said that he's run away," the officer said. "Is that true?"

Malcolm stared at Sev, and his heart sank when he realized what this was all about. The man was trying to protect him. If he had told them the truth about the "secret organization", then Malcolm would have come back to find a squad of policemen waiting to take him away - or, more likely, force him to bring them to the meeting point so they could arrest Archer as well. And then... Malcolm didn't even want to think about it. He swallowed, and forced himself to speak in an even tone of voice.

"Yes, that's true." Knowing what the man was going to ask next, Malcolm continued. "We're staying at a hotel in town, and I realized only this morning that he was gone."

The officer frowned. "And you didn't call the police right away?"

"No." Malcolm tried to sound as if he regretted that now. "I thought I could take care of this myself. I never thought he would get that far with the children in tow."

"So you came all the way from town to search for him?"

"Well, I had no choice." Malcolm sighed theatrically. "I returned my flitter yesterday, and we were waiting for a friend to pick us up at the hotel."

It turned out that half-truths were indeed the best lies. The officer accepted his story without question (although Malcolm suspected that it was mostly the rank symbol on his uniform that prevented the man from inquiring further into the matter), and let go of Sev's arm.

"You're lucky we found him when we did. There've been some incidents with poachers, and we patrol the area from time to time, just to be sure."

Malcolm bit down hard on his tongue to stop a cynical remark from slipping out. "Yes, I guess I am. Thank you, officer."

The man seemed to have noticed Malcolm's less-than-enthusiastic tone. "I'm sorry we had to use somewhat... drastic measures, but you know how stubborn they can be. He wouldn't tell us anything."

Malcolm met Sev's eyes. This man had very likely saved his life by refusing to tell these men the truth.

_Why would you do such a thing_, Malcolm asked silently. _Why let them hurt you to save someone you hardly know?_

But Sev only lowered his eyes, raising a hand to wipe the blood off his chin. The police officer mistook Malcolm's look for anger, and gave Sev a smack up the side of the head.

"If I was you, I'd see to it that he doesn't pull another stunt like that. Whip him, then lock him up for a few days, something like that. That'd teach him to run away."

Well, how about that. Or how about I knock your teeth down your throat so you can spend the next few days picking them out of your shit.

Malcolm nodded curtly. "We'll see."

The Kareedian seemed to realize that Malcolm wasn't too interested in his opinion on the matter, and waved at his two subordinates.

"Let's go." Before he climbed into the flitter, he looked back at Malcolm. "Want a lift, sir? We could take you back to the city if you like."

For a brief, frantic moment Malcolm could think of no excuse to refuse the offer - the idea of flying back to the city only to start the long march all over again, this time with the children in tow, was more than frustrating. Then, however, remembering the man's earlier remarks, he shook his head.

"That's alright, thank you, officer." He pretended to shoot Sev a spiteful look. "He managed to get that far on foot, so he can bloody well walk all the way back as well."

The officer grinned a little and nodded, probably thinking that this offworlder had a rather strange way of punishing his slave. Still, he made no objection, and that was all Malcolm cared about.

"Suit yourself. Good luck, sir."

The shuttle's boosters started and a moment later the streamlined craft lifted off the ground, flew a wide arc and sped off in direction of the city. Malcolm noticed that his hands were clenched to fists, and he deliberately forced them open, letting out a deep breath. That one had been too close.

"Daddy!" At the sound of Sammy's voice, Malcolm turned around. The little boy hurled himself at his father and wrapped his arms around Sev's legs, the silent tears of before turning into loud sobs. "D- Daddy, are they - are they gonna come b-back?"

"Hey, it's okay." Sev had visible trouble speaking, but all the same, he crouched down and took the frightened child in his arms. "They're not going to come back, don't worry, partner. You did great."

Unlike her brother, Sara did not try to hug her father. Very carefully, she touched his arm, her lower lip trembling as she spoke. "Daddy, are you alright? Are you hurt?"

Sev reached out and pulled the girl close. "I'm okay, honey. Don't worry." He glanced at her midsection, and Malcolm noticed the worry in his eyes. "Does your stomach hurt?"

The girl shook her head, managing a shaky smile. "I'm okay," she echoed her father's words. Sev wasn't so easily convinced, and carefully lifted Sara's shirt to take a look himself. Malcolm could see a bruise forming where the Kareedian had kicked the girl. Sev's brows drew together at the sight, and he muttered a few angry words in Kareedian that the translator didn't pick up.

Sammy looked up at his father. "That's not a nice word, Daddy. It's not _polite_."

His serious tone made both adults smile.

"There's a medscanner in my bag," Malcolm offered almost tentatively - he felt strangely reluctant to join the conversation, as if he were intruding into the family's private sphere. Sev met his eyes, and again, Malcolm startled at the mass of bruises the other man's face now represented.

"Thank you, sir. I'd like to check if everything's okay." His words were followed by another worried glance at Sara's stomach, and Malcolm knew that by "checking if everything was okay" Sev hadn't thought about his own injuries for one minute.

"Just a moment while I get it." Malcolm didn't wait for Sara or Sev to protest (_I can do that, sir_), and trotted off to where he'd dropped the bag when he had first heard the screams. He also picked up the magazine, straightening the pages as well as he could - maybe getting her "book" back would help the girl forget about the incident. Malcolm quickly dismissed the thought; of course she wouldn't forget. Sara had been frightened and furious, but she hadn't exactly been shocked. No, this hadn't been the first time Sara was a witness to violence, and maybe not even the first time she had been a witness to violence directed towards her father. Or herself. And she didn't forget; Malcolm saw it in her eyes every time she looked at him with that guarded, wary expression on her face. Her eyes spoke of a profound distrust of the world in general and people in particular, and Malcolm had seen that expression mirrored on her father's face on more than one occasion. And especially last night, when he had misinterpreted Malcolm's decision to have them sleep in the same room.

_What did they do to you,_ Malcolm wondered. He wasn't a particularly trusting person himself, but this was more than being careful and reserved around people. In a way, Sev and his daughter reminded him of stray dogs that have been kicked a few times too often.

And still, the other man had done all this just to protect Malcolm. He had realized, of course, that this business of "meeting a colleague in a secret place" was a lot more dangerous than Malcolm let on, and he had kept his silence, even when the Kareedians had beaten him halfway to unconsciousness. But why? Just to give Malcolm a reason to be grateful, to make sure he was in his new master's good graces? Somehow, Malcolm didn't think so. All the time, Sev had never once done anything to insinuate himself into Malcolm's favor. And remembering the flash of rage in Sev's eyes when the Kareedian had kicked his daughter, Malcolm thought that anyone who tried to lay a hand on Sara and Sammy would learn the hard way that Sev wasn't as quiet and obedient as he might seem. "Protective" seemed more to the point.

When Malcolm came back to the clearing, both children were still sitting close to their father, although Sara was very careful not to touch any part of his body that had been hurt during the beating. Sammy's eyes were drooping; the shock and his crying seemed to have left him exhausted enough to go right to sleep.

Malcolm knelt down next to them, pulling out the small medkit that was part of the standard equipment. Sev watched him anxiously as he ran the scanner over Sara's midsection.

"Is she okay, sir?"

Malcolm nodded. "Everything's alright. There's going to be quite a huge bruise, but other than that she should be okay."

Sev's face relaxed in obvious relief, then turned into a frown when Malcolm raised the scanner once again.

"I'm fine, sir."

"Well, I wouldn't call it "fine"," Malcolm said dryly. "But it seems like they didn't break anything."

He rummaged through the medkit, and dug up a phial with an antiseptic solution and a hypospray.

"I'm going to give you some painkiller, then we can take care of your face," he said, holding up the hypo to read the label. Sev gave him the by now familiar are-you-serious look.

"Sir?"

Instead of giving an answer, Malcolm held the hypospray against Sev's neck and watched the man's face as the painkiller emptied itself into his bloodstream.

"Better?"

Sev nodded slowly, and involuntarily touched the place where the hypo had touched his skin. "Yes," he said, and Malcolm could see that he was surprised and confused at the same time. Surprised that a simple injection could make the pain go away, and confused why anyone should bother to waste such medication on him. Malcolm pretended not to have noticed, and wet a handkerchief with some of the antiseptic solution.

"Now hold still while I clean the blood off your face."

Sev was clearly feeling uncomfortable, but he did as he was told. Carefully, Malcolm began to dab the blood off, aware of Sara's eyes on him as he did so. The girl seemed to realize what he was doing and winced in sympathy every time he touched an open cut. Like her father, she didn't seem to be familiar with analgesics and had no idea that you could actually numb a person's pain so they didn't feel it when their wounds were cleaned.

When he was done, the handkerchief was stained with blood and soaked with antiseptic solution. Malcolm folded it up and tucked it into a plastic bag, mindful not to leave any suspicious waste behind. Sev had never looked at him while Malcolm cleaned the wounds, and seemed relieved when the procedure was over. Not because of the pain, the analgesic should have taken care of that; he didn't seem to be comfortable with the entire idea of Malcolm tending to his injuries.

"Daddy?" Sara asked quietly, reaching out and taking her father's hand. "Daddy, are you really okay?"

Sev smiled at her, but the effect was ruined when his split lip started to bleed again. "Really, honey. That - painkiller, it helped a lot."

Sara did not answer his smile; instead she took the handkerchief out of the bag and offered it to Sev so he could wipe off the blood. "Daddy, why did you lie to them? Why did you say that we ran away when we didn't?"

She didn't say anything to Malcolm, but he could read the silent accusation in her eyes. _And why didn't **you** tell them the truth?_

"I had to, honey," Sev said, carefully folding up the handkerchief after he'd dabbed off the blood. "I couldn't tell them the real reason why we are here, and I had to tell them _something_."

"But why?" Sara wanted to know. "Why couldn't you tell them?"

Sev hesitated briefly before he spoke. "It... it would have been too dangerous."

"That's right," Malcolm added quietly. "Your father is a very brave man, Sara. He saved my life when he lied to the police."

And I still have no idea why he did it.

Sara frowned, but seemed to accept that neither of the adults was going to explain in more detail what was going on. She looked up at Malcolm.

"You're not..." She trailed off, lowering her eyes.

_She's afraid of me,_ Malcolm thought_. And maybe even more so since I didn't tell the truth about Sev running away._

He sat down in the grass next to the girl. "What?" he asked gently.

Sara's voice was very quiet, and he had to strain his ears to understand her. "You're not going to do any of the things the man told you, are you, sir?"

At first, Malcolm had no idea what she was talking about, but then he remembered what the Kareedian had said about "teaching" Sev a lesson. And his own answer. _We'll see_.

"Sara," he said, but the girl wouldn't meet his eyes. "Sara, please look at me."

Hesitantly, she raised her eyes, and Malcolm continued. "Sara, I would never do any of the things that..." (_bloody bastard_) "...that man was talking about. I had to lie to him about it, so he wouldn't get suspicious..."

Sara looked at her father, and Sev explained, "So he wouldn't realize that he was being lied to."

"Right." Malcolm nodded. "But I didn't mean it. I would never hurt your father, or you, or Sammy." He paused, waiting for her reaction.

Sara nodded slowly. "You lied to him so he wouldn't notice that you're different."

Malcolm was surprised how astute her observation was - basically, that was what he had been doing ever since he had arrived on Kareedia. "Yes, I believe you could put it that way."

Remembering something, he leaned forward and reached for his bag. "I've got something for you." He held out the magazine to her. "Here. It got a little dirty, but most of the pictures should still be okay."

For the first time ever, the girl actually smiled at him. "Thank you, sir."

Malcolm grinned back. "You're welcome."

A moment later, Sara was absorbed in the art of cooking (or, since she couldn't read, in the flashy pictures that came with the recipes), and Malcolm turned to Sev who was shifting a sleeping Sammy on his lap.

"I..." Malcolm hesitated, not sure how to begin. "I want to thank you. I shouldn't have left you behind, and it's my fault that they found you. I guess... I guess I owe you my life." He remembered something, and smiled. "Seems like it's your turn to pick a gift."

Sev smiled faintly in response, and shook his head. "The law doesn't apply to slaves, sir. It's their duty to serve and protect."

_But what you did went far beyond duty._ For a moment, Malcolm wanted to tell Sev that he was free, that it had all been another act to protect him and the children. But he bit down on his lips before he could say anything. His good intentions had gone awry a few times too often, the highlight being his decision to leave Sev and the children alone in the wilderness. Malcolm wasn't going to take any more chances.

"Be that as it may, I still owe you one."

He waited for Sev to say something, to explain why he had done it, but all he got was silence. Reluctantly, Malcolm decided to drop the subject for now.

"I hate to rush things, but we should get going as soon as we can. They're waiting for me, and - hey, take it easy."

Sev, who had been about to get to his feet, stopped in his tracks. "Sir?"

"We don't have to leave right now. Take your time. I'm sure you and the children could use a break." Malcolm sighed inwardly. Sev still interpreted every statement as an order, as if the idea that Malcolm could simply be having a conversation with him had never crossed his mind. For some reason, Malcolm was saddened by the thought.

They rested for another half an hour, then Sammy woke up again and announced that he needed to use the bathroom. He seemed to be back to his usual energetic self, and had apparently decided, in the subconscious way in which small children dealt with these things, that the men who had hurt his dad were only part of a bad dream that was best forgotten about.

After Sammy and Sev had returned, Malcolm asked the children if they were up to a little walk in the woods, and their enthusiastic nods reassured him that both of them had rested enough. It was more than could be said of their father, who seemed rather dazed by the strong dose of painkiller Malcolm had given him. Still, they couldn't afford to wait any longer. Malcolm estimated that it was going to take them about three hours to reach the meeting point, and time was running short.

The first hundred meters of ground were covered by a thick layer of underbrush, and more than once they had to take the long way in order to avoid thick patches of thorny brushwood. Sara and Sammy enjoyed the walk, running ahead or stopping to examine a particularly interesting weed or bug they had spotted somewhere between the leaves that carpeted the ground. Sammy collected about a dozen twigs and branches he insisted on taking along, and Malcolm had to smother a smile when Sev drew the line at a rotting tree stump the boy had dragged out from under one of the bushes.

They made only slow headway and Malcolm was already beginning to worry about the time when the underbrush suddenly gave way to smooth forest ground. There was enough space between the trees to walk without having to worry about hidden roots, and the thick blanket of the tree tops above allowed only few sunbeams to reach the moss-covered ground. The green twilight interrupted by the occasional bright patch of sunshine created a quiet, ghostly atmosphere, and Malcolm saw the children creep closer to their father, Sammy abandoning part of his stick collection as he reached up to take Sev's hand.

They continued through the forest for another hour and a half, and Malcolm continued to decline both Sara's and Sev's occasional offers to take his bag. He had insisted on carrying it himself when they had started their walk, only half-joking when he reminded them that he, after all, was the only one who had not come away with any bruises from their little adventure with the police. After an hour of changing it from one hand into the other he made a mental note to bring a backpack next time.

Eventually, of course, the forest lost its novelty and the children started to show first signs of exhaustion. Sara soldiered on without a word of complaint, but Malcolm saw by the way she dragged her feet that the girl was tired. Sammy kept complaining for about twenty minutes, then sat down on the ground, hugged what was left of his stick collection and refused to get up again.

"Sammy, we can't stay here," his father explained patiently, crouching down next to the boy as he talked. "I know you're tired, partner, but right now we can't take a break."

"I can't move my feet anymore, Daddy," the boy said earnestly, raising one bare foot off the ground and dropping it back down as if to demonstrate. "See? I think they're broken."

"Your feet are not broken, Sammy," Sev said with a mixture of amusement and exasperation. "And it looks like you can move them just fine."

Sammy, realizing his mistake, changed his strategy. "But they _feel_ like they are broken. I don't think I can walk on them anymore. You have to carry me, Daddy."

Sev gave in. "Alright. Come on, pumpkin."

Noticing the visible exhaustion on the man's bruised face, Malcolm came to a decision. He knew that this was certainly not something a Kareedian would do, but he didn't care. He had already more or less abandoned the rules he had tried to play by in the beginning, and it really made no difference anymore.

"How about I carry you?" he suggested, looking at Sammy. "A big lad like you, I bet you're quite heavy, and I think your Daddy could use a break."

"Sir...", Sev began, looking shocked, but Malcolm shook his head.

"That's alright."

After some serious consideration of the matter, Sammy nodded. "Okay, you can carry me. Do I have to leave my sticks behind?"

Deciding that a few dry branches weren't going to break the camel's back, Malcolm shook his head again. "No, that's fine. Just try not to take out my eyes, okay?"

Sammy grinned. "I won't."

Before Sev could protest, Malcolm lifted the boy up and found that he weighed even less than he had expected. Sammy wrapped one arm around his neck, using the other hand to hold on to his sticks.

"You're smaller than Daddy," he observed, and Malcolm smiled.

"That's right."

"Sir, you don't have to do this," Sev said quietly, lifting up the bag since Malcolm literally had his hands full. Malcolm met his eyes, and noticed that Sara was watching them with an anxious expression on her face.

"I know," he said. "But I feel it's the least I can do, after what you did for me."

Sev lowered his eyes. "Sir, I only did what..."

Malcolm shook his head. "No. You didn't only do what was your duty as... what you felt you had to do. If you had told them the truth, I would have been taken away to jail. They'd have executed me, most likely. I owe you my life."

"Sir." Sev spoke quietly, but Malcolm had no trouble understanding him. "Do you know what happens to slaves if their master goes to jail?"

Malcolm shook his head.

"They're sold at a public auction. And..."

He didn't continue, his eyes coming to rest on Sara and Sammy. Malcolm felt like he had been punched in the guts. Involuntarily, he tightened his grip on the little boy in his arms and realized for the first time how it must be for Sev, to be always afraid for his children, to be at the mercy of strangers who had the power to separate his family at a moment's whim.

"I'm sorry," he said, though he wasn't sure what he was apologizing for. He had been careless and stupid to leave them behind, but there was more to it. He, Malcolm Reed, _was _one of those strangers Sev had to fear. Malcolm found that for the first time he couldn't bring himself to look at the man.

"It's not your fault, sir," Sev said almost gently. "I believe you that you wouldn't hurt us. I'm glad we can stay with you."

_No,_ Malcolm thought, the realization leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. _You're not glad you can stay with me. You're desperately afraid of what would happen if they took you away from me._

In a way, Sev's words left a hollow feeling in his chest. He had been thinking that what Sev had done was a thing friends did for one another, but now Malcolm realized how utterly ridiculous such an idea was. Sev had been protecting his children, and he was not - could not - be Malcolm's friend. Not when Malcolm could come to him one day and say "Oh, by the way, I've decided that I really need that money... and between the two of us, Sev old chum, looking after one of those little rug rats gives you more than enough to do, doesn't it?"

A bitter smile tugged at Malcolm's lips and he turned away, missing the look in Sev's eyes as he did so.

"Well, we'd better get going," he said, and hoped that his voice wasn't going to give any of his feelings away. Sev wouldn't understand, and Malcolm knew he had no right to be feeling that way. He didn't even know why all of this had become so important to him.

They continued further into the forest, Malcolm carrying Sammy and checking his scanner from time to time to ascertain that they were still walking in the right direction. It wasn't long until Sammy fell asleep with his head resting on Malcolm's shoulder, the rest of his stick collection slipping out of his hands and dropping unnoticed to the ground. More than an hour passed in silence until Sara asked timidly if they could take a short break. Malcolm agreed, and they sat down under one of the huge gray trees, eating crumbly Kareedian cookies and drinking the rest of the water that Malcolm had bought when he had returned the flitter.

Sammy woke up and demanded his share of the cookies soon enough, and Malcolm had just opened his mouth to suggest that they get going again when he heard steps approaching. At first, he thought it was only the rustling of the leaves, but then he heard a twig break and knew that someone was coming.

"Stay right here!"

He ignored the surprised looks he was getting and drew his weapon. If it was the police again... Slowly, Malcolm approached the direction from where the sounds came, taking cover behind a patch of bushes. Then, when the steps had almost reached his position, he jumped into the open.

"Malcolm!"

Malcolm stared, blinked, stared again - and then lowered his weapon when he realized that it was aimed right at his superior, Commander Jonathan Archer.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	6. Chapter 5

Title: Thursdays's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for reviewing Chapter 4!

Parisfan (thank you! I'm glad you like the interaction between Malcolm, Sev and the kids), Rinne (thanks!), JadziaKathryn (you're right, it's time they get off that planet), firebirdgirl (not exactly MACOs, but that's a good guess... some things will be explained in this chapter), JennMel (wouldn't want to keep you in suspense... ;-) ), The Libran Iniquity (Oh, right, there was that ;-)... hier kommt die Aktualisierung!), bluedana (thanks! Yes, Commander Archer... sounds strange, doesn't it? Almost as strange as "Captain ---"... well, I'm not telling ;-) ), Luna (no cliffies in this chapter, I promise :-) ), Virgo (thank you :-)!), Gabi (dankeschön! Welche Klammern ;-)?), Emiliana Keladry (thank you! please keep reviewing!)

Please keep the feedback coming, I love to hear what you think!

------------------------------

Chapter 5

"It's good to see you, sir."

Archer grinned, tucking away his own weapon which he had been holding loosely in his hand. "Same here. We've been worried about you."

Malcolm smiled, then threw a brief look over his shoulder at the bushes that hid Sev and the children from sight.

Time to make some introductions, I guess.

"Everything alright, Malcolm?"

Malcolm turned back and saw that the Commander's hand had returned to his weapon holster. "You're not... being followed or something?"

He fought the irrational urge to burst out laughing. "Not exactly, sir."

"Good." Archer relaxed again. "I thought I'd heard something, so I went to check... what the hell?"

Malcolm turned around to see Sammy running towards them, his father and Sara in hot pursuit.

"Sammy, get back here right now or-"

Sev stopped short when he saw Archer, forgetting all about his wayward son who giggled and hid behind Malcolm's legs.

"Catch me, Daddy!"

"Do you...do you know these people, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm was secretly amused by the stunned look on Archer's face. "As a matter of fact, I do. Commander, this is Sev, his daughter Sara and his son Sammy. Sev, this is Commander Jonathan Archer."

Archer and Sev stared at each other for a moment, then the Commander, still visibly struggling to hide his surprise, stepped forward and extended a hand.

"Pleased to meet you."

Sev looked down at the extended hand, as if he wasn't sure what to make of it. Then he took a reverent step backward and bowed his head. "I'm honored, sir."

Archer, nonplussed, held his hand out for another second, then pulled it back and raised his eyebrows at his subordinate. Malcolm could almost hear the silent message: _I think you've got some explaining to do, Lieutenant._

"It's a long story, sir," he said quietly, with a side-glance at Sev who was watching him, apparently wondering if he had done something wrong. Archer was right, he had some explaining to do, and not only to his superiors.

"I bet it is," Archer said, and smiled when he noticed Sammy gaping at him with his mouth hanging open. "Hi there."

Shyly, Sammy smiled back and reached up to take his father's hand. Seeing that both children were rather intimidated by the tall stranger in the blue uniform, Malcolm decided to extend his introductions.

"Sara, Sammy, this is Jonathan Archer, my superior officer." At the look of incomprehension on the children's faces, he elaborated, "My boss. He's Chief Engineer on the starship we're serving on, the Enterprise."

Sara's eyes widened. "A starship?" she asked, and Malcolm noticed Sev watching him out of the corner of his eye.

"Yes, that's right. That's where we're going."

Archer took him by the arm. "Malcolm, could I have a word with you?"

Malcolm glanced at Sev and his children who stood closely huddled together, reminding him a little too much of the unpleasant scene at the Senator's palace when Sev had been "given" to him. He could read the fear in the man's eyes; fear that they were going to be left behind, or, even worse, that Malcolm's "boss" didn't like the idea of children running around on his starship. In fact, the look on Archer's face wasn't very happy.

"Of course, sir," Malcolm said and smiled at Sev to let him know everything was going to be alright. The man seemed unconvinced and pulled his children closer, as if to demonstrate that he wasn't leaving without them. Sighing, Malcolm followed Archer to the edge of the small clearing.

"Sir..."

"Malcolm, what the hell is going on here? Who are these people?"

"They're slaves, sir," Malcolm said bluntly. The Commander's eyes widened.

"Slaves! Are you out of your mind, Lieutenant? How-"

"I can explain," Malcolm said, a little more testily than he had intended. "But right now, it's imperative that we leave here, and soon. We've already had trouble with the police, and I'd prefer not to run into anyone else."

"The police?" Archer glanced at Sev, and Malcolm saw a look of compassion cross his face. "Is that how he ended up all black and blue?"

"Yes." Malcolm stopped short. "You didn't think I-"

"Of course not." Archer sighed. "The Captain's going to have your head. You'd better have a really good explanation for all of this."

"I do," Malcolm said, although inwardly he wasn't so sure if the Captain was going to agree with his idea of a "good explanation". He could count on one hand the times when the Captain had disagreed with him, and it wasn't an experience Malcolm wanted to repeat. "I'm sure she'll understand."

"Well, we'd better get going," Archer said, wisely not commenting on Malcolm's optimism. "The shuttle's only a few dozen meters from here."

They returned to the clearing where Sev and the children were waiting.

Archer smiled at the three of them.

"I just wanted to make sure that everything's alright," he told Sev. "Nothing personal."

Sev didn't seem sure what to make of the last part of Archer's statement, but the Commander's friendly tone seemed to put him at ease. "Yes, sir," he said quietly, and again Malcolm admired Archer's ability to win people's trust. It was something he himself lacked, and sometimes he envied the Commander his way of finding the right words at the right time.

It didn't take them long to reach the shuttlepod, Malcolm carrying his bag while Sara and Sammy held on to their father's hands, from time to time throwing shy glances at Archer's back. Even Sammy was unusually quiet, and Malcolm saw the boy's eyes widen when he spotted the huge, metallic craft that was carefully hidden between two clumps of bushes.

"Is that a flitter?" he whispered to Sev, but before his father could answer, Archer turned around and grinned at the boy.

"It's a shuttlepod, and it can go a lot faster than a flitter," he said. "Want to take a look?"

Sammy hesitated at first, then his curiosity won over and he nodded. Archer looked at Sara.

"You too?"

Sara seemed uncertain, but Sammy's enthusiastic comments as he climbed through the hatch ("Look, Sara, there're beds in here!") decided her. "Yes, sir."

"That's two great kids you've got there," Archer said to Sev as he watched Sara follow her brother into the shuttle. Malcolm knew he was thinking of Mike, his own son who had been killed in an accident only four years ago.

A look of pride crossed Sev's face, and instead of lowering his eyes he smiled openly at the Commander. "I like to think so, sir."

Again, Malcolm was surprised what a difference the smile made; it was almost like looking at another man, like a crack in Sev's armor that showed a glimpse of the cheerful, good-natured person hiding behind the distrustful façade. As he climbed into the shuttle after Sev, Malcolm decided that he was going to find out more about that person, draw him out of his shell even if it was going to take a long time. And he was going to start by finally telling him the truth.

In the meantime, Archer had taken a seat in the pilot chair, and Sara, greatly daring but too fascinated to resist, had agreed to sit in the chair behind Archer and watch the "environmental controls" (a flashing blue display that showed the never-changing inside temperature of 23 degrees). On seeing Sammy's jealous expression, Archer asked the boy if he would like to "help him navigate", and soon enough Sammy was sitting on his lap, staring in awe at the flashing helm console in front of him.

Sev followed Malcolm's example and sat down on one of the rear benches. Malcolm saw him look around the shuttle, taking in every detail, and from the expression on his face could tell that the man was impressed. He would have been glad to give Sev a detailed description of the shuttle's interior workings, but he knew at the same time that they had more pressing matters to discuss.

"Sev...," he began, and immediately, the man returned his attention to Malcolm with an almost guilty start. Malcolm sighed inwardly.

"Look," he began, "there's-"

"Engaging thrusters," Archer's voice came from the front, and a moment later the shuttle rose gently into the air. Sammy whooped, then clapped his hands over his mouth and peeked shyly at the big man with the deep voice on whose lap he was sitting. Jonathan grinned.

"Sir, do you think he minds?" Sev asked with a worried look at Archer and the children. Malcolm shook his head. "That's alright, don't worry."

He remembered the one occasion when he had seen Archer with his wife and son, back on Earth. Mike had been only three at the time, and his father had held him on his lap like he was holding Sammy now, bouncing the boy on his knees until he squealed with delight. That had been three years before the Commander was summoned to the Captain's ready room to receive a "personal message" from home. Archer had never been the same ever since.

Malcolm returned his mind to the present.

"As I was saying... there are some things we need to talk about. It's nothing to worry about," he added quickly at the look on the other man's face. "You remember what I said about the secret organization I work for?"

Sev nodded. "Yes, sir."

"There's actually a bit more to it. Have you ever heard of Starfleet?" Malcolm asked, not surprised when Sev shook his head. "It's part of a military organization called the Joint Forces of Earth and Vulcan, but we're not exactly soldiers. We represent the scientific department of the Joint Forces and our primary mission is to explore, although we do have to participate in military operations as well. My mission on Kareedia was to find out more about their government's dealings with the Orions, and I played the part of the Senator's bodyguard in order to get information about his involvement in the negotiations. My real name is Malcolm Reed."

Sev digested this information. "But you didn't tell us in case we got caught," he said then.

"That's right," Malcolm said, relieved that Sev didn't seem angry at the deception. But then again, Sev would never let him know even if he was furious. "I hated to do this, keep up this masquerade, but it was necessary. I couldn't endanger my mission."

Sev nodded. "I guessed that K'tar Sarn'ee wasn't your real rank and name, sir."

"I don't mean just the name, but..." Malcolm shrugged helplessly. "All of this. You know."

Obviously, Sev did not. "Sir?"

"Playing master to you and the children, I mean."

Sev shook his head. "I don't understand, sir."

Looking at his face, Malcolm could see that the man was honestly confused. He frowned. He hadn't exactly expected tears of joy, but that Sev wouldn't even understand when he told him that he was free... And then he realized that Sev really had no way of understanding what Malcolm was saying. "Starfleet" and "Joint Forces" were words he had never heard before, and the things Malcolm associated with these terms - redeemed civilization, safety, progress - were completely alien to the world Sev had grown up in. He had probably been taken away from Earth as a very small child, shortly before the Raids came to an end, and had no idea that slavery was something humanity had abolished hundreds of years ago.

"Look," Malcolm said, "humans don't believe that one person can own another. Our laws do not allow slavery. We believe that all sentient beings are equal and have the right to decide for themselves. That's what I meant when I said I was only pretending to be your master. You and the children are free."

At these words, the color leached from Sev's face. "You're... you're casting us out?" he whispered, and the prospect seemed to fill him with pure terror. "Please, sir, please don't!"

He made as if to drop to his knees again, but Malcolm caught his arm before he could do so, cringing at the idea of Sev humiliating himself in such a way.

"Wait! Please, you don't have to do this. Sit down again. Please."

Sev obeyed, and Malcolm saw that the shock on his face had given way to a desperate, helpless anger.

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

"What?" Malcolm asked, now completely confused himself. "What do you mean, I'm casting you out?"

Sev stared at him with a wild expression of hope. "You're not?"

"No! I mean, I don't even know what you're talking about!"

Sev's eyes narrowed to slits, as if trying to assess whether Malcolm was making fun of him. Then, very slowly, his face relaxed a little.

"Casting out means that a master sends his slave away and forbids him ever to come back. It's... it's worse than killing. Nobody is allowed to give food to an outcast, or help them in any way. They can't go near any place where people live, and most of them starve to death or get killed after no more than a few months. But until then everybody can do whatever they want to them, according to the law. And..."

He didn't finish, but Malcolm could well imagine how in a dog-eat-dog society like the Kareedian people would vent their anger on a helpless, half-starved person whom the law had declared fair game. He pressed his lips together; one more addition to the long list of reasons why he was glad to get away from this wretched planet.

"Sir?"

Sev's voice broke through his thoughts, and Malcolm became aware of the man watching him anxiously. He took a deep breath.

"Sev, please listen. When I said that you are free, I never meant to imply that I was casting you out. Humans don't have this... custom, and I didn't even know what you were talking about. I meant that you don't have to consider yourselves slaves anymore."

"But..." Sev lowered his eyes. "We have nowhere to go, sir."

"Hey." Malcolm waited for Sev to look up again, and smiled. "The name's Malcolm. And no one's sending you away; you can stay on Enterprise for the time being, and I'm sure that together with the Captain we can work out a satisfactory solution for everybody. Maybe..." Malcolm hesitated, then continued, "Maybe we can try and find out more about you. You said you were born on Earth..."

"I don't remember anything about Earth," Sev said - a little too quickly. "I was too young."

Malcolm watched his face, and saw something in Sev's eyes that hadn't been there before - sadness, as if some past memory had touched his mind before he had quickly closed the door on whatever it had been.

I think that you remember more than you let on, my friend.

"Sir?"

"Please, call me Malcolm. What is it?"

"Does this mean you're going to let us stay with you?"

Malcolm sighed. "Yes. Yes, of course."

Relieved, Sev leaned back, and Malcolm resigned to the fact that, despite the lecture on freedom and equality, this man still regarded him as his "master".

_But that's going to change,_ Malcolm silently promised the man sitting across from him._ You'll find out soon enough that I can be just as stubborn as you are, mister._

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	7. Chapter 6

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for leaving a review, I love getting feedback!

Rinne (Was your guess right?), The Libran Iniquity (You're right, I was -g- . Wir sollten bald wieder so etwas schreiben, vielleicht eine Fortsetzung?), Queen of Fairyland (thank you!), Emiliana Keladry (Thank you! AU is short for "Alternate Universe", meaning that the background and setting of the story deviates from the show in some way or another. I know what you mean, all those abbreviations can be confusing at times... ), BananaTrip (I'll try to post more frequently, please keep reviewing!), JadziaKathryn (thanks... and you're right, they are awfully stubborn...), Tata (Thank you! No... you shouldn't go away again (you going away equals less reviews for me ;-) ) Maybe I can convince you to stay with the promise of more chapters coming up soon?), Gabi (hast du schon gesagt, ja, aber das macht nichts, sowas darfst du gerne zwei, dreimal sagen!), firebirdgirl (yeah, another capitan... and I bet Q would like that one ;-) ), JennMel (Do I detect a certain dislike of our favorite Vulcan ;-)?), Parisfan (yes, I guess it's her...), MuseUrania (I'm glad you continued reading... please keep telling me what you think)

Please keep the feedback coming!

----------------------------

Chapter 6

A soft beep signalized that the hangar bay was sealed, and Malcolm felt a slight shudder as Archer expertly landed the shuttle on one of now closed doors.

"Disengaging thrusters," the Commander announced (mostly for Sammy's sake, who watched in awe as the small lights on the console went out one by one). Then he swiveled around in his chair and lifted the little boy off his lap, smiling at Sara who for the duration of the flight had never taken her eyes off the shuttle's inside temperature.

"Good work, kids. I don't think we would have made it home without you."

Both children grinned at him, then bounded to the back of the shuttle to tell their father about their adventure.

"Daddy, guess what, I can fly a shuttle!"

Malcolm went to join Archer at the helm. "Thank you for looking after them, sir," he said quietly.

"No problem." Archer glanced at Sev. "You didn't get very far talking to him, did you?"

Malcolm shook his head. "No, I'm afraid not. He's human, but that doesn't mean he thinks like one of us."

"I guess not." The Commander got up. "Let's get out of here. I have to admit, Malcolm, I'm looking forward to hearing your story."

Malcolm sighed.

When they climbed out of the hatch, the Captain was already waiting, flanked by her second-in-command Commander Soval, and Dr. Phlox.

"Captain." Malcolm automatically drew to attention. "Lieutenant Reed reporting back to duty, ma'am."

"At ease, Lieutenant." T'Pol raised one delicate eyebrow. "It is... gratifying to see you."

"Thank you, ma'am."

Suddenly T'Pol's other eyebrow shot up as well, and Malcolm knew without turning around that Sev had chosen this moment to appear in the open hatch.

Here we go.

"Captain," he said, only too aware what a strange picture the man and his children looked as they stood, barefoot and wearing those ragged clothes, in front of the shuttle hatch. "I can explain."

"I do hope so, Lieutenant," T'Pol said, her eyebrows still hovering dangerously close to the hairline. "Who are these people?"

Malcolm repeated the introductions and was relieved to see T'Pol's eyebrows slowly returning to their normal position. For a Vulcan, her face was still one big question mark, but Vulcan hospitality wouldn't allow her to ignore the newcomers in order to hear Malcolm's explanation first. In her usual dignified manner, she went over to Sev and raised her hand in the Vulcan greeting.

"Mister Sev. I am sure Lieutenant Reed will tell me later exactly why you are accompanying him, but for now, as humans would put it, welcome aboard."

Malcolm expected Sev to bow down again, but to Reed's surprise he did not. Instead he raised his hand, fingers spread in a V, and said a few words in Vulcan, thanking her for her hospitality with the traditional Vulcan phrase.

"_Pasht'a ta'al_," T'Pol answered gravely. "I commend your mastery of the Vulcan language."

Malcolm noticed that his mouth was standing open, and closed it with a snap. Coming from T'Pol, this was high praise indeed. He glanced at Sev, wondering what other surprises the man had in store. Sev talked English like a native speaker, although he was noticeably out of practice, and spoke rapid-fire Kareedian when talking to his children, but of all things Malcolm hadn't expected him to know Vulcan. And certainly not a more or less flawless High Vulcan that found favor even with T'Pol.

"I suggest that Commander Archer, Lieutenant Reed and our guests proceed to the decontamination chamber," Commander Soval said. As always, he was being the quintessence of Vulcan logic and rationality and had only nodded once when Malcolm introduced him, seeing "no logic in the human concept of small talk". "We can start the debriefing as soon as you are done."

Malcolm winced at Soval's stern tone, hoping that the time in decon would be enough for him to think of a version of his story that the Vulcans would accept. A mere "It wasn't _my_ fault!" wasn't going to do.

"Very well." T'Pol turned to Phlox. "Doctor, please introduce our guests to the decontamination facilities and make sure they get all the medical attention they need." She glanced at Sev's bruised face. "Lieutenant, I will await you in sickbay as soon as the doctor discharges you."

"Aye, ma'am."

Phlox gestured at them to follow him, smiling at Sara and Sammy. "Hello, I'm Dr. Phlox. Have you two ever been in a decon chamber before?"

The children shook their heads, and the Denobulan doctor launched into an explanation of why decontamination was necessary on a starship, both of the youngsters listening to his every word with rapt attention. Malcolm stayed a few steps behind, falling into pace next to Sev.

"I didn't know you speak Vulcan," he said quietly.

Sev nodded. "There was a Vulcan back on the farm, a man called Sarin. He taught me a little, but I've forgotten most of the words."

"Sounded quite fluent to me," Malcolm commented. "And the Captain seemed to think so as well." Sev blushed and ducked his head, as if the fact that he should be complimented on anything struck him as weird.

Their stay in decon wasn't as boring as usual. Sammy turned out to be more ticklish than anyone Malcolm had ever met, and the three adults had their hands full, trying to get hold of the little boy who began to squirm and giggle like mad whenever his father tried to spread some of the decon gel on his body. They chased him round and round the decon chamber until Phlox asked whether anyone in there needed to be sedated. Finally, Sev managed to get a hold of his son and held the squealing child in a vise grip between his legs, Archer and Malcolm helping him with the parts he couldn't reach. Thoroughly decontaminated and exhausted with laughing, Sammy collapsed on the floor of the chamber and watched as his father helped Sara with her back. Malcolm, their misunderstanding in the hotel room still vividly in mind, didn't ask Sev if he needed any help, but he couldn't help noticing the scarring on the man's back and shoulders, and the way every single one of his ribs was clearly visible under his skin. At a closer look, Sev was even thinner than his children, and Malcolm could well imagine the father dividing their meager food ration into two parts and keeping only the left-overs for himself.

Finally, Phlox' cheerful sing-song voice announced over the intercom that they were cleared of all harmful substances, and could leave the decontamination chamber.

Malcolm wasn't surprised to find the Captain and Soval waiting for them in sickbay. Briefly, he went over what he was going to say. No need to be defensive, he told himself. There is a logical explanation for everything.

T'Pol, however, didn't start questioning him right away and turned to Phlox instead. "Doctor, I suggest you examine our guests while the Lieutenant and I begin with the debriefing. If you don't mind, Mr. Sev, I would appreciate it if you filled in the details."

Sev seemed surprised at her request, but nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

"Very well. Doctor..."

Smiling at Sev, Phlox patted the bio bed next to him. "Take a seat, and I'll see what I can do about those bruises, hm?"

Soon the doctor was fussing over Sev, and Malcolm found himself facing a thorough cross examination by his Captain and commanding officer. As he told them the part how V'Lin had threatened to sell the children, however, he noticed the Captain's stern features soften a little. Of course, compassion was an emotion, but Malcolm knew T'Pol well enough to know that she wasn't as impassive as her cool exterior might suggest.

He briefly summarized their stay at the hotel and following journey to the meeting point, not leaving out the fact that it had been his decision to leave Sev and the children behind.

"I didn't even consider the possibility that someone might find them. If Sev hadn't lied to those officers..."

T'Pol's eyes came to rest on Sev. "A logical decision," she said. "And a courageous one."

The man lowered his eyes and said nothing, but Malcolm knew what he was thinking. He had seen no other choice.

Finally, Malcolm ended his report and drew to attention as he awaited the Captain's verdict. The tension was somewhat eased by Sammy giggling in the background as he watched Phlox examine his sister's ears, but all the same, Malcolm felt his hands grow sweaty as he waited. There was no denying it, he had defied 'Command's orders by bringing Sev with him, and insubordination wasn't a minor offense with the Joint Forces.

T'Pol's face was perfectly calm. "Lieutenant, I think Commander Soval will agree with me that you made the right decision. Your explanation of your motives is sufficient, and there will be no reprimanding entry into your personal file." Malcolm breathed a sigh of relief. "In fact," the Captain continued, "I will suggest to Admirals Forrest and Selin that you be given a recommendation for more-than-adequate fulfillment of your duties as a Starfleet officer."

Malcolm stared at her, hardly able to believe he had heard her right. In his time on Enterprise, there had been only two people who had received a recommendation, Commander Archer and a Vulcan ensign who had saved a crewmate's life on an away mission. And he had been afraid he might end up facing court martial for what he had done.

"Thank you, ma'am."

T'Pol acknowledged this with a half-nod. "We will discuss the confidential parts of your mission tomorrow at 1400 in my ready room." She turned to Phlox. "Have you finished your examinations, doctor?"

"Yes, Captain." Malcolm saw Sev listen anxiously as the doctor reported the results of his examinations. "Both children are slightly malnourished, due not least to a rather severe case of helminthiasis. Worms," the doctor explained when he saw Sev's questioning look. "But I should be able to take care of that with a few injections. Other than that, they are both quite healthy, considering their..." he hesitated, "their difficult circumstances. If you would rather discuss your condition in private, Mr. Sev..."

"That's alright, sir," Sev said quietly, but Malcolm saw that he was feeling uncomfortable, staring down at his hands and avoiding the doctor's eyes. The Captain seemed to have noticed as well.

"Lieutenant Reed?"

"Yes, ma'am?"

"I suggest you take the rest of the day off and help our guests get settled. Mr. Sev, you can make a list of everything you need and have Lieutenant Reed pass it on to the quartermaster."

Sev nodded, and Malcolm knew there was no way in hell he was going to admit to T'Pol that he couldn't read and write. "Thank you, ma'am."

T'Pol left sickbay followed by Soval and Archer, the engineer winking at Sara and Sammy before the door closed behind him. Malcolm didn't want to intrude into Sev's private sphere by staying, and turned to leave as well.

"Doctor, if you don't mind I'd like to check if everything's alright down in the Armory. I'll be back later..."

"I do mind, Lieutenant," Phlox interrupted mildly. "I don't think it'd be a good idea for you to leave sickbay at the moment."

Malcolm frowned. "What do you mean?"

Phlox took a pair of rubber gloves from a shelf, pulling them on with a snap. "I wouldn't want any of you to go anywhere as long as I haven't deloused you yet."

"What?" Malcolm saw that Sev's face had gone bright red, and understood. "Oh. But... we went through decon..."

"Decontamination destroys only microorganisms, Lieutenant. A louse is hardly a microorganism."

"Right." All of a sudden, Malcolm had the feeling of a hundred lice crawling all over his head having the time of their lives, and he had to pull himself together not to start scratching right away. Seeing how embarrassed Sev was, he tried to ease the situation with a joke.

"I hope you're not planning to set one of your vermin-eating pets on us, doctor."

"Don't worry, Lieutenant." Phlox opened a cupboard and began to rummage through its contents until he had found a large brown bottle. "In this case the traditional methods are certainly the most effective."

Fifteen minutes later, Malcolm, Sev and the children each had a large white towel wrapped around their heads, reeking of the louse mixture Phlox had generously rubbed into their hair. Sara and Sammy had a great time admiring their turbaned selves in the mirror, and Malcolm had recovered from his initial shock enough to see the funny side of the situation. Sev, on the other hand, was still mortified, apologizing for the third time when Malcolm finally interrupted.

"Please. Don't worry about it." He met the other man's eyes. "You may not have noticed, but I heard what Sara said back at the hotel about using a bathroom. I can imagine that you didn't have access to bathroom facilities back at the farm."

Sev shook his head. "There was a faucet in the stables that we used, but it didn't do much good."

Malcolm nodded, careful not to let pity show on his face. Sev had his pride if not much else, and it would hurt him if he realized that Malcolm felt sorry for him, for the way he had been forced to live. But there was more to it than just pity. Malcolm admired the man for the way he had raised two fine children in a poor, hostile environment, and how he was ready to do anything to protect them. Malcolm hardly knew anything about raising children, but he knew about protecting your own and the strength it required.

In the meantime, Phlox had prepared several hyposprays and came over to the bio bed Sev was sitting on.

"If it is alright with you, Mr. Sev, there are a few things about your treatment that we need to discuss."

Malcolm got up. "I can leave if you'd rather-"

"Please, sir," Sev said. "I don't mind."

Malcolm saw that this time he really meant it and stayed where he was. Phlox began arranging the hyposprays on a tray in front of him, talking to Sev as he did so.

"You are suffering from a severe case of malnutrition, Mr. Sev, and I'm afraid it's not only the helminthiasis. You have both an iron and a vitamin deficiency, and I'd like you to come and see me every day for the next two weeks so I can give you the necessary injections. I assume you have been experiencing increasing pain when passing water?"

Sev nodded.

"That's because you have a rather bad bladder infection. Have you been staying in any kind of cold or drafty environment lately?"

Sev considered. "At the Senator's house, maybe. They put us in the basement for the two nights that we were going to stay, and it was rather cold down there."

"They didn't give you any blankets?" Phlox asked, and Malcolm noticed a thin line forming between the doctor's brows.

"No," Sev said in an offhand tone, as if he had never expected them to do so in the first place. "But I found an old sack for Sara and Sammy to sleep on."

Malcolm pressed his lips together. "Why didn't you say something?"

Sev immediately lowered his eyes.

"Hey," Malcolm said in a more gentle tone. "I'm not angry with you. It's just... the idea that I made you walk through that forest when you were ill..."

"There was no other way, sir," Sev said, and Malcolm fell silent. Sev was right; they couldn't have avoided the long march one way or another.

"There's another thing I'd like to talk to you about," Phlox said. "I've noticed that several of your ribs and your left arm were broken some time ago, several years, actually."

Sev's face turned to stone, and he made as if to get up.

"Please," Phlox said, gently laying a hand on the man's arm. "Listen to me. I take it that these injuries have never been treated by a doctor?"

Sev shook his head, looking down at his hands.

"I thought so. Several of the fractures didn't heal properly, as you can see here." Phlox pointed at the screen that showed a zoomed-in picture of Sev's rib section. Malcolm saw that some of the bones had lost their regular sweeping form and looked somewhat crooked.

"Fortunately, your arm healed well, but you might want to consider having me reset those ribs. It's only a minor operation."

Noticing that Sev had gone a few shades paler, Malcolm added, "You would be under anaesthetic the whole time, of course."

Immediately, Phlox caught on. "You wouldn't feel a thing, I assure you."

Sev didn't look entirely convinced, but he didn't voice his doubts. "Yes, sir."

For a moment, Malcolm considered asking him how he had sustained all those injuries, but then decided against it. He watched Phlox administer several hyposprays to Sev, and saw how the man's face relaxed in obvious relief when he was injected with an analgesic.

_He must have been in constant pain,_ Malcolm realized._ And he never even considered saying a word to me._

Again, the thought saddened him in a way he could not have explained, and the fact that Sev hadn't talked to _anyone_ about his discomfort didn't help, either. 

Half an hour later Phlox finally announced that it was time to rinse out the louse mixture. Malcolm was glad to get the stinking stuff out of his hair again; he was probably going to smell like a chemical accident for some time to come, but that was still a lot better than carrying a headful of Kareedian lice around the ship.

It took Sev and Phlox about an hour to comb the nits out of the children's curly hair, and there were more than a few tears shed before they were done. Sara suffered in silence, but Sammy cried angrily and tried to squirm away until Phlox promised him to show him his Pyrithian bat if he agreed to sit still. After that, Sammy became a model patient and was rewarded with a brief look at the most dangerous creature the doctor's menagerie had to offer.

Mindful of Phlox' warning that the delousing would only take effect if they got rid of their old clothes, Malcolm had already changed into the new uniform Liz Cutler had brought for him.

Sev had been given one of the gray overalls the Spacedock techs usually wore, and the quartermaster had even dug out some children's sweaters and pants for Sara and Sammy. The children forgot all about the painful delousing procedure when they saw their new clothes, never wasting another look on their discarded rags which Phlox stuffed down the waste recycler.

"It's beautiful," Sara said happily, stroking her new yellow sweater. "I wish I could show it to Miss Elin."

"A lady back on the farm," Sev explained at Malcolm's questioning look. "She cooks for the workers, and Sara often helped her in the kitchen."

"Do you think she's missing me?" Sara asked, and climbed onto her father's lap. "When we said goodbye, she said she was going to visit me in the city." She hesitated, then continued softly, "But I think she only said that to make me feel better. I don't think they would let her go, and we didn't stay in the city, anyway."

Sev wrapped his arms around his daughter. "I know that she's missing you, honey. And I know that if she could see you now she would be proud what a beautiful girl you are."

Malcolm watched them, and not for the first time wondered what had happened to the children's mother. Sara and Sammy were human and so she must have been a Lost One like Sev, but other than that and the fact that she had died Malcolm knew nothing about her. Sev had never mentioned her again after Malcolm had asked him back at the hotel.

Finally, Phlox tucked away his scanner and said that they were free to leave sickbay since there was no trace of lice or nits left on any of their heads. Sammy seemed to have forgiven Phlox for his attack with the louse comb, announcing to the doctor that he would come back tomorrow to visit him and the bat.

They paid a short visit to the quartermaster's office, collecting the necessary toiletries and two mattresses since Enterprise's guest quarters were only equipped with one bunk.

Sev seemed shocked at the idea that he and the children should have their own room.

"Isn't there some place where the servants sleep?" he asked Malcolm as they dragged the mattresses along the corridors.

Malcolm shook his head. "There are no "servants" on Enterprise," he said. "Only eighty-three crewmembers, and they all have their own room, although some of the lower ranks have to share."

Sev was quiet for a while.

"Sir?" he asked then.

"Please, call me Malcolm. What's wrong?" He had noticed the troubled look on the other man's face.

"I...," Sev hesitated. "I was just thinking... we're not of much use to you."

Malcolm frowned. "Not much use? What do you mean?"

"I've never worked on a starship before. I'm not sure if there's anything I can do. And... so far, we've caused you nothing but trouble."

"Sev." Malcolm let go of his mattress and laid a hand on the man's thin shoulder. "Look... this isn't about you being "useful" to anyone. You're not here as... as my servant or something. I'm not sending you away," he added quickly, remembering Sev's reaction to their last conversation of this kind. "I want to help you. It's never easy to start a new life... but it's easier if you have a friend you can turn to."

There was a moment's silence. Then Sev looked at him and Malcolm was surprised to see a cautious smile tug at the man's lips.

"I understand," he said quietly. "Thank you, s... Malcolm."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	8. Chapter 7

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for reviewing!

Rinne (I thought so ;-) ), Gabi (hm, nee, hat er nicht... hatte erstmal andere Sachen zu tun ;-) ), JadziaKathryn (I'm not so sure about Porthos, sorry, but I can promise that you'll see more of Sammy yet), volley (thank you... yes, now that you mention it, Soval in a Starfleet jump suit does make a strange picture -g-...), Emiliana Keladry (no problem, thanks for reviewing!), Tata (yes, I admit I like the idea of T'Pol bossing Soval around ;-)... please keep telling me what you think!), Luna (you're right... it's going to take a while for him to understand just how much has changed in his life), The Libran Iniquity (Genau, etwas anders... vielleicht ein bißchen ernster, oder... na, das sehen wir dann. You're right, it's going to take some time for Mal and Sev to work this out between them - and, of, course, those situations you mentioned ;-)...), MuseUrania (thank you... yes, I guess that's the interesting thing about an AU, changing the characters' relationships), Lei Fon (thanks, and I promise I'll keep updating regularly), Parisfan (yes, several of the upcoming chapters are going to deal with Sev's past in more detail), stage manager (thanks! A lot of people don't usually like AU, so I'm glad you all seem to enjoy this story), BananaTrip (I guess there's a fair chance you'll be seeing him there ;-) ), JennMel (thank you ;-)!), firebirdgirl (thank you for the e-mail! No, I don't think Soval would be too happy about having Shran on Enterprise... hypothetically, since Shran won't make an appearance in this story, I'm afraid), Maraschino (thanks, I'm glad you like it :-)!)

Please keep telling me what you think!

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Chapter 7

When Malcolm woke up the next morning, it took him a few seconds to realize that he was in his quarters on Enterprise, not back in his room at the Senator's palace with K'tar "Snores Like A Dinosaur" Cor'Sin sawing wood in the bunk across the room. As a K'tar, he had been granted the privilege of sharing with only one of his colleagues, but after a few nights Malcolm would have preferred to sleep in a dorm together with nine other men instead of bunking down with the Amazing Living Chainsaw.

Malcolm had never been in the habit of staying in bed "just a few more minutes", but now he rolled over on his back and stared at the ceiling, relishing the silence. His legs were a little stiff from yesterday's long hike through the woods, and he made a mental note to pay a visit to the gym tonight. Maybe Sev would want to come, too.

Sev. Remembering their conversation in the corridor, Malcolm wondered if he was being rash, thinking of the man as his friend. True, Sev had finally given up the deferential "sir", but calling someone by his first name didn't mean you were friends with him. Then again, Malcolm wouldn't really know; he could count on one hand the people he had called "friends" in his life, and with some of them he wasn't sure if "acquaintance" might not be a better term to describe them. Back at the Vulcan boarding school, there had been few other humans, and none of them had been interested in making friends with the small, nine-year-old kid who had skipped two terms and still had no trouble keeping up with his eleven-year-old fellow students. Malcolm had befriended one of the Vulcans, a boy called Selek, but most of the others were too focused on their schooling to concentrate on anything but their study work. Still, Malcolm preferred the quiet atmosphere of the school to the foster home where the other kids had called him "Weedy Reedy", and had teased him because no one ever came on Visiting Day to take him out for a day at the park or the movies. There had been only one time when his father had come to see him, shortly before Malcolm left for boarding school. He remembered how nervous he had been when the stranger he hadn't seen since he was four had stood in front of him, smiling hesitantly and shaking Malcolm's hand as if he were a grown-up. Even the eight-year-old Malcolm had noticed the symptoms of a chronic alcoholic: the trembling of the hands, the bags under the eyes, the premature wrinkles. He knew Stuart Reed was on probationary leave from the rehabilitation clinic; that was what Mark, his care worker, had told him. Malcolm didn't know what "probationary" meant and had only a vague idea what a rehabilitation clinic was, but he realized that his father wasn't here to take him home.

They had gone to the small cafe across the street where the older kids went to hang out and spend their pocket money. They had sipped their drinks, Stuart his caffeine-free coffee and Malcolm his coke, and Stuart had told him that Mark had sent him a letter about Malcolm winning the scholarship.

"I was so proud when I read you were going to that Vulcan school," he had said. "So proud. I wish your mother could have seen that letter."

Then he had cried a little, wiping his face with a paper napkin, and Malcolm had stared down at his hands, not knowing how to deal with the grief of an adult he hardly knew.

A few years later, Malcolm had been called to the headmaster's office to be told that his father was dead; he had killed himself with an overdose of sleeping pills on another one of his probationary leaves. The Vulcan headmaster had commended Malcolm's emotional control when he received the news, but the truth was that Malcolm had no idea how to deal with the feelings that his father's death evoked in him. He should have grieved for him, he supposed, but how did you grieve for someone you didn't know? He had cried a little that night, mostly out of confusion, and after that had "moved on", working even harder for he knew he could only keep the scholarship if he obtained full marks in all subjects.

The boarding school was located near the Vulcan embassy in San Francisco, not far away from the Starfleet Academy, and when Malcolm was in his final year one of the instructors visited his class to inform the students about the requirements for the Starfleet entrance exam. None of his Vulcan fellow students were too interested (like Selek, most of them were going to return to Vulcan after they had finished the first stage of their schooling), but Malcolm listened with rapt attention as Captain Forrest told them what the newly founded organization was all about. He took the entrance test only a few weeks after his final exams, and passed at first try. In his cadet years, Malcolm discovered his "passion for weapons" (as some people called it), and spent hours in the library, studying the different kinds of alien weapons that were listed in the Vulcan database. The training was very hard and Malcolm liked to keep to himself in the scarce spare time he had; after all those years at a Vulcan school he wasn't very experienced in dealing with other humans.

His first assignment, again, was on a Vulcan ship, the _T'Ler_, and Malcolm found he preferred his job in the Armory to everything else, despite the fact that in the Vulcan philosophy violence and destruction was regarded as the source of all evil. But Malcolm felt that his job was more about protecting people than anything else, and that was something he knew he could do. He might not be very good at interacting with people, but when it came to protecting them, he was better than the rest.

When Forrest had contacted him about the job on Enterprise, Malcolm had been proud - proud enough to agree to a transfer he had never really wanted. He was content on the _T'Ler_, had established his routine in the familiar Vulcan environment, and he didn't want to build up a new one on a ship where half of the crew was human and would undoubtedly label him the uptight, arrogant Brit who avoided people and sometimes acted more Vulcan than human. His worst fears about Enterprise were confirmed when he came aboard only to be greeted with the words "I always thought an Armory officer would be one of those hulking Americans with a crew cut and a face like a bulldog. But I guess a small Brit will do as well."

The person who had said these words, a slender Asian woman with a sarcastic glint in her eyes, turned out to be the one who was supposed to show him around the ship. Malcolm was still smarting from her initial remark when she concluded her tour with the words "I expect it's going to be fun, working with you. I like guys who look like they laugh only once every seven years."

Malcolm, an experienced fighter, knew a challenge when he saw one and realized he had found a new focus for his ambitions - having the last word in a conversation with Enterprise's smart-mouthed communications officer. Soon the Reed-Sato Wars had become famous among the human part of the crew and strangely enough, Malcolm found that his ongoing verbal repartee with Hoshi Sato helped him adjust to the new environment a lot better than he would have expected. Commander Archer actually became his friend, and when Mike died Malcolm discovered that sometimes protecting people from others wasn't enough. Sometimes you had to protect them from themselves as well.

Malcolm found that he had reached sort of equilibrium aboard Enterprise; Captain T'Pol appreciated his work and the crew accepted him the way he was, both humans and Vulcans. He still didn't have many friends, but he wasn't alone either, and for Malcolm that was a new experience.

His mission on Kareedia had been a surprise to every member of the senior staff, and most of all to Malcolm himself. It didn't happen often that Starfleet personnel received secret orders from Joint Forces Command, and even Malcolm himself hadn't been told all the confidential details. But the mission had turned out to be a surprise in more than one aspect.

Still staring at the ceiling of his quarters, Malcolm remembered the "farewell ceremony" at the Senator's palace and how Sev had been forced to play the part of the goodbye present. Or, rather, the good riddance present. Suddenly, he felt a surge of irrational anger at the Senator who had probably thought of his idea as the crowning moment of all the diplomatic insults he had ever come up with. Malcolm wondered what Sev had thought when he had seen him for the first time. A human like himself, sucking up to the Senator, accepting him with the same forced grace like one would accept a trashy gift from a simpering relative. Then it came to him that Sev hadn't thought any of these things. He knew all Sev had thought of during that humiliating ceremony had been his children.

Malcolm sighed. He had never found himself in this position - trying to befriend someone who was even weirder, even more reticent than he himself. Someone who had to be drawn out of his shell instead of trying to draw Malcolm out of his. It seemed like an impossible thing to achieve, and yet, for some reason, Malcolm was determined to go through with it. So he wasn't very experienced in making friends, but Malcolm was willing to bet that Sev had even less experience in that respect.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, Malcolm threw a perfunctory glance at his computer and noticed a blinking green light that indicated he had a message. As he pressed a button, a few lines in T'Pol's usual, straightforward style lit up on the screen.

'Lieutenant, please see to it that our guests are introduced to the facilities and provided with everything they require. Lieutenant Schwarz will be working the morning shift, so you are free to take all the time you need. I have arranged for Mr. Sev to meet with Ensign Sato and I at 0830 in the situation room; your presence would be appreciated. T'Pol'

Malcolm wasn't surprised that T'Pol had arranged for a meeting; of course, the Captain was just as interested as he was to find out more about the new arrivals.

_I doubt that she'll get very far, though,_ Malcolm thought as he stepped into the shower. Whether intentionally or not, Sev had been more than closemouthed about his past.

Ten minutes later, Malcolm stood outside Enterprise's guest quarters, a little reluctant to press the door chime. It was only 0700, after all, and after yesterday's exhausting march Sev and his family had earned a good night's sleep. Then, however, the sound of muffled laughter came through the door and Malcolm realized that he needn't worry about waking anyone from their well-deserved slumber. Sammy had probably been up since 0600, at the very latest.

At the sound of the door signal the laughter stopped. There was a moment's silence, the sound of rustling and muffled directions ("Close the bathroom door, Sammy, you don't want to run around in front of people like that!"), then the door slid open.

"Good morning, sir." Sev smiled as he remembered something. "Malcolm. Please, come in."

Malcolm complied, answering the careful smile with a grin of his own. "Thank you. Sleep well?"

Sev nodded, and Malcolm saw that he was already fully dressed, looking like he had been up for several hours. The bruises on his face had faded somewhat overnight, and the pain lines around his mouth were gone. All in all, he looked a lot better than the day before.

Malcolm let his eyes travel over the room. Sara was sitting on one of the mattresses, her well-worn magazine open in her lap. She smiled when he met her eyes, and Malcolm smiled back.

Then he noticed the second mattress standing propped up against the far wall. Sev caught his look.

"They're not used to sleeping in two different beds," he said apologetically. "Back at the farm, we slept over the stables and they just curled up together at night."

"You had a room over the stables?" Malcolm asked, jumping at the opportunity. It was the first time Sev had voluntarily told him anything about his past. "Must have been quite cold in the winter season."

"It was alright," Sev said, shrugging. "But it wasn't really a room. It was more like a hayloft."

As he sometimes did, Sev had used the Kareedian word and Malcolm, not sure if he had heard the translation right, repeated: "The hayloft? You slept in the hayloft?"

"Yes." Sev didn't seem to think anything unusual about the fact. "When it got too cold, we sometimes moved to a small room behind the kitchen, but only because Miss Elin wouldn't tell the master. The farm workers weren't allowed in the house."

Malcolm was still digesting this information when the bathroom door burst open and Sammy came out. Or rather, jumped out. He was wearing his new sweater the wrong way around, and his curly hair was sticking up in all directions as if he had combed it with a rake.

"Look Daddy, I dressed and washed and got ready all by myself!"

Sev smiled and pulled the boy closer to turn his sweater the right way around. "That's great, partner. Now say good morning to Malcolm."

"Is that your name?" The boy looked up at Malcolm, who nodded.

"That's right, I'm Malcolm Reed."

"Good morning, Malcolmreed," Sammy said dutifully, then added: "Can we fly the shuttle again today?"

"The shuttles usually stay in the shuttle hangar when we're not using them to fly down to a planet," Malcolm said. "But I believe Commander Archer has a model space shuttle in his quarters. I'm sure he'd be happy to show it to you."

Sammy looked positively delighted at the idea. "Can we go and ask him now?"

Malcolm smiled. "How about some breakfast first? You didn't have any supper last night, and I'm sure you're starving."

Sara and Sammy both nodded decidedly, but Sev hesitated. "Are you sure we're not keeping you from your duties?"

Malcolm shook his head. "The Captain gave me the morning off so I could show you around. Oh, and she has arranged a meeting at 0830."

"A meeting?" Sev frowned, and the familiar expression of mistrust reappeared on his face. Malcolm knew he was going to like the purpose of the meeting even less, but there was no way around it.

"I think she wants to... talk to you," he said carefully. "Find out more about you."

Unquestioning obedience was so deeply ingrained in Sev that he didn't say anything, but Malcolm could see that he wasn't happy with the idea. He plucked a non-existent piece of fluff off Sammy's sweater and absentmindedly began to smooth the boy's mussed-up hair, avoiding Malcolm's eyes as he did so. Malcolm remembered the look on Sev's face when he had claimed not to remember anything about Earth. He could imagine very well why his past wasn't something Sev wanted to talk about.

"How about we take a walk to the mess hall," Malcolm suggested, deciding to drop the subject for the moment. "We can discuss everything else while we have breakfast."

Excited, Sammy ran to the door, but his smile faded when his father picked up a pair of shoes that were sitting on the floor next to his bed.

"Do I have to wear those, Daddy?"

"Yes you do," Sev answered firmly. "It's not neat to go barefoot."

"But we always go barefoot! And the shoes hurt my feet, Daddy!"

"You'll get used to them," his father wouldn't give in. "Look, Sara is wearing hers, too!"

Seeing that the person he worshipped from the bottom of his heart had agreed to wear those awful, pinching things, Sammy gave in and allowed his father to slip his feet first into a pair of socks, then into the sneakers.

"I don't wanna be neat," he grumbled, and Malcolm bit back a smile. He had noticed how important it was to Sev that the children were clean and well groomed, and didn't want him to think that he was laughing at him.

On their way to the mess hall both Sammy and Sara kept stumbling over their own feet, and even Sev seemed to feel somewhat uncomfortable in his new shoes. He wouldn't allow the children to take theirs off, though, and so they slowly continued down the corridors, three people learning to walk with shoes for the first time in their life.

The mess hall was crowded as usual at breakfast time, and both human and Vulcan crewmembers stared openly when Malcolm entered with Sev and the children in tow. Malcolm knew most of them had heard about the new arrivals - even with a half Vulcan crew, gossip traveled faster than light on Enterprise. He led his small group over to the cupboards, and soon both children were proudly carrying trays that were loaded with all the breakfast delicacies Enterprise's galley had to offer.

"Lieutenant!"

Malcolm turned around and saw Enterprise's helmsman wave at him, pointing at the empty chairs at his table.

"It's good to see you again," Travis said when Malcolm set his tray down next to his.

"Same here. Ensign, this is Sev, and his children Sara and Sammy."

"My name's Travis Mayweather. Pleased to meet you." Travis smiled and extended a hand. For a moment, Sev paused, then, carefully, he took the hand and shook it.

"I'm pleased to meet you, too," he echoed Travis' words, then glanced at Malcolm as if to check whether he had done everything right. Malcolm smiled. The bowing had never seemed true to Sev's nature, anyway.

Travis, who had several nephews and nieces of his own, took an immediate liking to the two children and in turn won their eternal admiration when he told them that he couldn't only fly a shuttle, but a real starship.

"I'm going to be a starship pilot when I grow up," Sammy announced and stuffed another piece of toast into his mouth. "It's got to be the funnest job in the world."

"I'll have to agree with you on that," Travis grinned. "And what do you want to be?" he asked Sara, and the girl didn't disappoint him.

"I'm going to be a helmsman, too," she said, and to Malcolm's surprise she used the English expression. "That's the right word, isn't it?"

"Yes," Travis nodded. "You pick up the words fast. Maybe you should become a linguist instead of flying a starship."

"My Daddy teach me a little English," Sara said, beaming. Except for a slight accent her pronunciation was very good, and Malcolm was amused to notice that the girl had even adopted a trace of the faint drawl that marked her father's English.

"Taught, honey," Sev said. "I taught you a little English."

"Taught," Sara repeated, filing away the new information. "What's a linguist?"

Travis launched into an explanation, and Malcolm noticed Sev watching his children with an expression of wistful pride. He looked back at Sara and Sammy, laughing and talking about what they were going to do when they grew up, and could imagine what the father was thinking. There was a chance that Sammy might actually do the "funnest job in the world" one day, or that Sara's talent for languages would do more than help her pick up exotic swearwords.

_They're going to get their chance, _Malcolm thought, still watching Sev's face._ But what about you?_

But Sev didn't seem to be thinking about himself. He caught Malcolm's eyes and smiled, nodding at the children who were still listening to Travis' explanations.

"I think you have two new Starfleet applicants on your hands," he said. It was the first, careful joke Malcolm had heard from him, and he grinned in response.

"Admiral Forrest would be pleased to hear it," he said. "They're always trying to recruit more people for the science department."

"That's good." Sev paused, then after a while added quietly, " I think I'm very glad we came here to stay with you."

Malcolm smiled.

After a while, Travis excused himself as his shift started in a few minutes, to the disappointment of Sara and Sammy who seemed to enjoy the young helmsman's company. The mess hall grew empty as the crew left to get to their stations, and it wasn't long until Malcolm glanced at the chronometer on the wall and realized that it was time to leave for their meeting with Hoshi and the Captain.

"Can we come, too?" Sammy asked, excited at the idea of going to another place he had never seen before. "Can we, huh, Daddy?"

Sev hesitated, but Malcolm reassured him that it was fine. "I'm sure we can find something to keep them occupied."

It turned out that Hoshi was well prepared in this respect. When they entered the situation room, she came over to shake Sev's hand first, then smiled down at the children.

"Hi, I'm Hoshi Sato. You must be Sara and Sammy, right?"

They nodded, and Sammy added, "I'm Sammy," as if he wanted to make sure there would be no mistakes.

"Right." Hoshi grinned. "Do you two like to look at books?"

The children nodded enthusiastically, and Sara held up her precious treasure, the cookery magazine from the hotel. "I've even got a book of my own!" she said proudly. A strange expression crossed Hoshi's face when she saw the tattered, old thing, but she was careful not to let Sara notice.

"That's great," she said, pulling out a few padds and showing the children how to change the image on the display. "There are several picture books and games on each of these," she said. "Think you can keep busy for a while?"

Sara beamed. "Oh yes. Thank you."

The children sat down at the far end of the conference table, already deeply absorbed in their respective padds.

"That was a good idea, Ensign," Malcolm said to Hoshi, feigning surprise. Her eyebrows twitched in response.

"I do have my moments, Lieutenant," she said, but refrained from adding an insult of her own when the Captain distinctly cleared her throat. T'Pol had already taken a seat at the head of the table. Her eyebrows arched disapprovingly at her senior officers bickering like teenagers.

"Mr. Sev," she said and tilted her head as a way of greeting. "Ensign, Lieutenant. Please, sit down."

Sev complied, and Malcolm sat down next to him so Sev wouldn't feel like he was facing an investigating committee. The man seemed nervous enough as it was.

As usual, T'Pol wasted no time with formalities. "There are several reasons why I arranged this meeting. First of all, we need to decide how we are going to proceed from here." She met Sev's eyes. "You and your children can stay on Enterprise as long as needed, but in the long term we have to find another solution. Another reason is that we need to try and find out about your background, Mr. Sev." She paused. "Do you remember anything about your past that might help us narrow down our search?"

Malcolm winced inwardly. The Captain's no-nonsense manner was ideal when it came to command situations, but sometimes it could also be somewhat... intimidating. Sev, however, didn't seem to mind T'Pol's directness.

"I don't remember much about Earth. I was very young... three, maybe four. There are... some things I remember..." He looked down at his hands.

"Some of your family, maybe?" Hoshi suggested quietly.

"I don't remember the name," Sev said, still talking down at his folded hands. "But I think I had a brother. I remember how we played some kind of game together... we kicked a ball across a lawn..."

"Soccer," Hoshi said, and at Sev's confused expression elaborated, "The ball game. It's called soccer."

"Maybe." Sev shook his head. "I don't remember."

"Is there anyone else you remember?" T'Pol asked. "Your parents, maybe?"

A flicker of pain crossed Sev's face. "The day the _MoH'kwan_ came. I remember how my mother fought them."

"_MoH'kwan_?" Hoshi repeated. "You mean the Orions?"

"Your mother fought the Orion raiders?" Malcolm asked incredulously. "Was she abducted as well?"

"No," Sev said quietly. "I only remember how she went at them and shouted at them to let me go. I never saw her again after that."

Malcolm and Hoshi exchanged a glance. A single woman fighting a bunch of Orion warriors would have had hardly any chance to survive.

"You told me 'Sev' is not your real name," Malcolm said. "You don't remember what your family called you, do you?"

Sev shook his head. "No."

T'Pol steepled her fingers on the table. "We do know that Mr. Sev comes from an English-speaking country, which narrows down the possibilities considerably. Before the Vulcans came, there were about two hundred Raids in five decades, and only twenty percent of them took place in areas where English is the first language."

"Is there anything else you remember about your home?" Malcolm asked. He hated to put even more pressure on Sev, but knew that they had no choice if they wanted to get anywhere. "What the place looked like?"

Sev frowned. "It was hot," he said after a while. "I don't think it usually got that hot, but the day my brother and I played this game - soccer - it was scorching."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "That excludes certain areas in the North, but it still leaves a great number of possibilities open. We will have to find another method of researching the matter."

"I believe I can help you there," Hoshi said suddenly, causing three heads to turn in her direction.

"Ensign?" T'Pol asked.

"It's only a theory, but..." Hoshi typed something on a padd and held it out to Sev. "I think I know where you're from. Could you read out those words to me? That is-" She broke off, realizing her mistake only a second too late. Sev's color deepened and Malcolm noticed him throw a quick side-glance at T'Pol, as if he was particularly embarrassed about her finding out about his illiteracy.

The Captain, however, reacted with perfect calm. Ignoring the three flustered humans, she took Hoshi's padd and looked at Sev.

"If Ensign Sato doesn't mind, I will read out the words so you can repeat them. Is that acceptable, Ensign?"

"Of course, ma'am," Hoshi said quickly. "Please, go on."

Malcolm could make out no connection between the words Hoshi had written down, but the more of them Sev repeated, the broader grew the smile on the communications officer's face. After a while she held up a hand.

"Thank you. Captain, I believe we can assume that Sev's family lives somewhere in the South of the United States of America."

"How did you come to that conclusion, Ensign?" T'Pol asked.

Hoshi smiled. "Well, the accent is very faint, but it is definitely there. There are some distinct hints, like for example the glide reduction -"

"You can add the linguistic details to your report, Ensign," the Captain interrupted, and Malcolm bit his lip when he saw Hoshi's disappointment. "I believe your findings narrowed down the possibilities enough for us to begin a cross-referenced search."

"I'll see what I can do, ma'am." Hoshi got up and walked over to the console that was installed at the far end of the room. Sammy and Sara briefly raised their heads to see what she was doing, but bent back down over their padds when they saw that she was only typing names and numbers.

"Sir..."

Malcolm turned his head and smiled. "I don't listen to that anymore, remember?"

"Malcolm," Sev corrected himself, smiling as well, but at the same time he seemed to be feeling uncomfortable. "I don't really understand. How can you start a computer search on me? My name can't be anywhere in there."

"She's not looking for your name." Malcolm paused, realizing how confusing all of this must be to Sev. He probably hadn't even realized that he had an accent, let alone one that indicated he came from the South of the United States. In all likelihood, Sev had never even heard of a country called the United States of America. "Hoshi believes she knows approximately where you come from," he explained. "Now that we've narrowed down the search to a certain area, we can check the files of all the places that have been Raided, and see if there's any entry that fits your age and gender."

Sev frowned. "The _MoH'kwan _attacked more than one place?"

Malcolm nodded. "We call those attacks the Raids. They started fifty years before the Vulcans came, and more than 500 000 people were killed or abducted before the Vulcans made first contact with Earth about thirty years ago. They helped us defend ourselves against the Orions, and after a few pirate ships had been destroyed the Raiders decided Earth wasn't such an easy target anymore. They stopped attacking us, and life slowly returned to normal."

"Vulcan also gained an advantage of the alliance," T'Pol picked up the thread. "In the years before we made contact with Earth, our natural resources had run short due to a rather drastic change in climate. Famines were spreading, and we were forced to expand our space program to be able to supply our people with the food the colonies produced. We needed the food and raw materials Earth was able to spare, and they needed our military power to protect them. The alliance was the logical conclusion."

Sev was silent for a while, digesting the information. Then he glanced over at Hoshi who was still busily tapping away at the console. "So there are files of all the people who were abducted?"

"Almost. Most of the places that were Raided listed the people that were Lost in an official file, mostly so their relatives could be informed. They never..." He hesitated. "No one hoped to see one of those people ever again. That's why we called them the Lost Ones."

"None of them ever returned to Earth?" Sev asked quietly.

Malcolm shook his head. "No. You'll be the first."

Before Sev had a chance to react, Hoshi called out from the far end of the room.

"Captain, gentlemen. I may have found something."

They got up, Malcolm glancing at Sev out of the corner of his eye as they went to join Hoshi at the console. The man seemed nervous, as if he wasn't sure he really wanted to hear about Hoshi's findings.

_Sleeping dogs, _Malcolm thought._ If you stir up the past, it may come back to hurt you._

The screen showed a closely printed list of words, the letters too small for Malcolm to read them, but he assumed that they were names, thousands of names compiled in some sort of electronic war memorial. Somewhere in that gigantic assembly of files, Malcolm knew, was the name of his mother.

"There were four Raids in the South of the United States," Hoshi said, diverting Malcolm's attention from the list of names. "The first three took place before you could have possibly been born, so they can be ruled out. The last one, on the other hand, happened only ten months before the Vulcans came. You said you were about four years old?"

Sev nodded. "I think so. I... don't know exactly how old I am."

"I'd say you're in your thirties," Hoshi said. "That fits in with how old you were when the Orions attacked." She turned to the monitor. "This is a list of all people who were abducted in that last Raid in Florida. The file lists 25 boys between three and five, and only nine of them had a brother close to their age. I did a cross-referenced search referring to their family's ethnic background, and I think we can exclude another five because they are either of Hispanic or African-American origin. That leaves four names."

She pressed a button and the list of small-printed names disappeared to be replaced by the pictures of four boys. Malcolm had to take only one look to know that they had found what they were looking for. The boy on the picture was blond, his eyes blue, and his nose resembled Sev's in its slightly upswept shape. He was smiling into the camera, and Malcolm remembered the few occasions when he had seen that very smile on Sev's face.

"Charles Tucker III," he read out the name under the picture, and turned to look at Sev.

The man's face had turned to stone. He stared at the picture that showed his younger self of so many years ago, unaware of the two women and Malcolm who were watching him. Then he said something, so softly that Malcolm didn't catch the words.

"I'm sorry?"

"Trip," Sev said. "They used to call me Trip."

Then, without another word, he turned around and walked out of the room, leaving the three officers and his children staring after him in silence.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	9. Chapter 8

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for leaving a review... I just -love- feedback!

Rinne (thank you! there'll be more details about everyone's history yet...), Gabi (Ich hoffe, du hattest einen schönen Urlaub ;-)! ), stage manager (thank you, here goes!), Tata (my best story so far? wow, thank you!), Luna (I can see why the last chapter left you with a lot of questions... well, at least some of them should be answered in the chapters to come :-)!), JadziaKathryn (exactly my thoughts, "Sev" doesn't fit at all), The Libran Iniquity (right, let's see what else he remembers... und zu unserer geplanten Geschichte, ich hätte schon ein paar nette Ideen -unheilverkündendes Lächeln-...), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (exactly... please let me know what you think of this chapter!), Virgo (hey, you're back :-)! Glad you like it so far!), BananaTrip (Malcolm? Flirting? Hmmm... yeah, I guess he is ;-) ), firebirdgirl (yes, he's going to need a friend to help him deal with his past...), RoaringMice (thank you... no, it won't be "happy days and laughter", in more respect than one...), Emiliana Keladry (I guess he doesn't want to, but I guess there's no way around it), MuseUrania (thank you... yes, I guess they could have spent a little more time researching, that's right...)

Please keep the feedback coming!

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Chapter 8

Malcolm found Sev in the nearby conference room. He almost missed him, and was about to leave again when he spotted the huddled figure sitting on the floor next to the window, his knees drawn to his chest. When Malcolm approached, Sev raised his head and began to get to his feet.

"Please," Malcolm gestured for him to stay where he was. "Don't have to."

He sat down on the floor next to Sev and earned a surprised look. Malcolm had half-expected to find traces of tears on Sev's face, but there were none. The man's eyes were dry, his features expressionless like they had been when he had walked out of the situation room.

"I'm sorry," Sev said with no particular emotion in his voice. "It was rude to walk out on you and the Captain."

Malcolm shook his head. "Don't apologize. This isn't easy for you, and the Captain understands that as well."

He listened to his own, seemingly empty words, and wished that there had been more occasions in his life when someone had needed his comfort. Or advice. Or both. Hell, Malcolm didn't even know what exactly it was that Sev needed, except that he probably needed someone to be his friend. Malcolm was more than willing to comply, but what was he going to say? He couldn't start with telling him off, as he had done when Archer had almost starved himself to death after Mike's accident. Malcolm had never hugged anyone except for the two girlfriends he'd had, and even with them the gesture had seemed weird, almost awkward. One of them had split up with him because, as she said, Malcolm wouldn't allow anyone to get close to him. He had been heartbroken when she left, but deep down, he couldn't really blame her. She was right; even though he loved her, he had never really let her in, let her come close.

And as to hugging a friend, Malcolm could not imagine himself doing that. He could not even imagine himself laying a comforting arm around anyone's shoulders. Not because he resented the idea; he just didn't know how to begin, and how to proceed once he had started. And if you had to think about these things, then they wouldn't feel right, anyway.

"Hoshi agreed to watch Sara and Sammy for a while," he said after a moment's silence. Best to start with the simplest things. "So... there's enough time if you want to talk."

_Oh great._ For a brief moment, Malcolm hated himself for being so hopelessly clumsy about these things.

Sev turned his head to look at him. "Thank you."

It was not a "thanks, but no thanks" sort of thank you; not what Malcolm had expected.

"What for?"

"For being friends with me." Sev hesitated. "You don't need me. I'm of no use to you, and you're still... you're still here."

"Sev..." Saying the name, Malcolm realized that this wasn't right; the man next to him wasn't called Sev. _"I don't really have a name", _had been his reply when Malcolm had first asked. "Trip? Can I call you Trip?"

The man was silent for a long moment, and Malcolm was afraid he had gone too far. Then, however, the man nodded slowly, speaking more to himself than to Malcolm.

"Yes," he said. "Call me Trip. I always hated 'Sev', anyway."

"Trip," Malcolm said, and for some reason the name made him smile. Their eyes met, and Malcolm saw that the man's features had softened, his lips curving upward in a careful answering smile.

"I believe it's because of 'Charles Tucker III'," Malcolm said, and at the other man's confused expression explained: "The Third. Triple. Trip."

"So that would make my father Charles Tucker II." He stumbled over the syllables.

Malcolm nodded. "Sound any familiar?"

Trip's smile vanished and he shook his head. "No."

His sad expression remembered Malcolm of their earlier conversation. "Listen, Trip..." he began. "I told you before, this isn't about you being useful. And even if it were... you saved my life back on Kareedia. I'd say that's a lot more than just "being useful". But that's not the reason why I want to be your friend."

"Why would you want to be my friend?" The way he said it, he made it sound like he could think of no reason why anyone would possibly want such a thing.

"Just because." Malcolm shrugged. "You don't need a reason why you're friends with someone. It's just the way it is." _Not that I would know that much about it_.

"That's what Sarin said. The Vulcan back at the farm," Trip explained. "I think he was my friend - sort of."

"Sort of?"

Trip shrugged and said something in Kareedian which the UT translated as "It's a long story."

"I'd like to hear it," Malcolm said.

"You would?" Trip sounded genuinely surprised. "Why?"

"Because I want to know more about you. All you've told me so far is that you've worked on a farm for some time, and that a lady called Miss Elin sometimes allowed you to sleep in a room behind the kitchen." Malcolm smiled. "I'm sure there's more to tell than that."

Trip was silent for a while, thinking. "I'll tell you," he said finally. "If you really want to know..."

"I do," Malcolm said, and began to get to his feet. "Why don't we take a walk to the observation deck. It's a quiet place, and more comfortable than sitting on the floor."

Neither of them spoke on their way to the observation deck, but when they entered the lounge, Malcolm saw Trip's eyes widen.

"It's a great sight, isn't it?" he asked, allowing himself a moment's secret pride. Trip nodded, his eyes fixed on the streaming lines of light. Even as they sat down on two of the chairs that were arranged around a low table, he never took his eyes off the stars outside.

"It's beautiful," he said quietly. They sat in silence for a while. Malcolm didn't try to talk to Trip, realizing that the man needed to do this at his own pace. Then, after a few minutes, Trip began to speak, softly and haltingly at first, like someone who had never told a story before. After a while his voice grew more confident, however, and he seemed to forget about his surroundings as he told Malcolm the story that began on a hot day in August more than thirty years ago.

Part I

Strolling through the crowded hallways of Space Station Four, Colonel Ma'Khor finally admitted to himself that the diplomatic mission had been a mistake. His entire decision to leave home one last time before he retired to enjoy his well-earned Years of Peace had been a mistake, and he was going to pay for it.

Not that he had failed; Ma'Khor had never failed any important mission in his entire career, and it was fortunate that he hadn't, since there were no second chances once you had reached a certain rank in the Orion military hierarchy. You failed, and they locked you up in a cell with a weapon set to kill or a hypodermic spray containing a deadly poison. No honorable _MoH'kwan _left that cell on his own two feet. Over the years, Ma'Khor had seen several of his superiors die that way, but luck and a talent to be in the right place at the right time (or, rather, not to be found in the wrong places) had saved him from finding himself on the wrong side of that cell door.

Still, he should have declined when Admiral Khwan had offered him this last assignment. Escorting an ambassador to negotiations with the Klingons, those mindless savages who deemed themselves the conquerors of the galaxy. Of course, no self-respecting _MoH'kwan _would even sit at the same table with one of those animals, but the negotiations were necessary if the colonies at the fringes of the empire were to have a moment's peace.

Ma'Khor felt both compassion and contempt for the ambassador whose unenviable task it had been to ensure that the Klingons agreed to the conditions the _MoH'kwan _High Senate had made. And they had agreed; after long, trying weeks of accompanying the ambassador to endless conferences, the Klingon spokesman had finally signed the cease-fire agreement. Eighteen weeks. Ma'Khor, realizing how long he had actually been away, swallowed when he thought of what his wife was going to say when he returned home. She had not spoken to him for two days when he had told her about the assignment, and then he had still assumed he was only going to be away for six weeks, eight at the most. But it had been eighteen, and Ma'Khor wondered if she was still going to be there when he came back.

"You go away, all the time," she had complained in that whining tone of voice which he had found so endearing when they were young. Now, after so many years, it only made him think of a spoiled little girl who demanded that her every wish be considered a command. "Do you know how I feel having to tell the other Ladies that my husband isn't home yet again? If you loved me, you wouldn't go away all the time and leave me with no one to keep me company except for a house full of imbecile servants!"

Ma'Khor would have loved to say "That's right, _if_ I loved you, I wouldn't", but of course that was out of the question. There was a reason he had married Be'Lin, and it wasn't her "sweet" pout or the fact that, in her time, she had been a pretty woman. There were certain advantages to being a Senator's son-in-law, and even in his Years of Peace, Ma'Khor had no intention of giving up those connections. Which meant, of course, that he was forever stuck with a wife who seemed set on making his life a living hell.

Ma'Khor's broodings were rudely interrupted when someone grabbed his sleeve.

"Klingon bloodwine, sir, freshly imported! I'll make you a special offer if you buy more than three bottles, sir!"

Angrily, Ma'Khor freed his arm and pushed the vendor with the foul breath aside. His absentminded wandering had taken him to the part of the space station where merchants from all over the empire sold their goods, and the air was filled with the chatter of hundreds of voices who praised the quality of their merchandise or haggled over the price.

Mostly because it kept his mind off other things, Ma'Khor strolled across the huge market, and stopped from time to time to look at a display of Andorian combat daggers or a stall offering exotic birds from Denobula.

Idly stroking a bale of Tyrellian silk, Ma'Khor wondered if Be'Lin would be more inclined to forgive him if he came back with a little something to get back into her good graces. It had worked in the past; that time when she had threatened to divorce him after the embarrassing incident with the servant girl, his offer of conciliation (an expensive flitter) had convinced her to give their marriage another try.

Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea, after all. But if he really wanted to seek Be'Lin's forgiveness with a gift, he needed to find something better than Tyrellian silk.

Ma'Khor left before the salesman noticed him looking at the silk and continued his way, now stopping more often to have a look at the things displayed in the stalls. At the far end of the hall, he noticed a slave trader and his henchmen herding a group of strange-looking beings towards the exit. Ma'Khor knew they were only passing by on their way from the hangar bay; the slave market was located in another part of the space station. Still, the aliens caught his interest and, stepping closer, he saw that they were Human. He had seen Humans before and knew that they had been in great demand for some time, when there had still been only few of them. Among the rich families, it was a status symbol to acquire exotic servants, and not too long ago Humans had still been all the fashion. Ma'Khor was well informed about these things, since Be'Lin was forever bothering him to buy more servants so she could show them off to her lady friends. Sometimes, Ma'Khor felt that his house was crawling with these creatures who stole whatever they got their hands on and filled the rooms with their unclean alien stink.

The slave trader had noticed the wealthy-looking officer scrutinizing his merchandise, and gestured for his men to bring the group to a halt.

"Sir?" he asked, adopting the ingratiating manner that was so typical of the merchant profession. "Do you wish to inspect the merchandise? I can make you a special offer..."

If I hear that line one more time I believe I'm going to throttle someone.

With deliberate indifference, Ma'Khor nodded at the trader and gave the huddled group a brief look-over. He saw at once why the man had volunteered to make him a special offer; saying that the Humans were a sorry sight would have been putting it mildly. Little more than walking skeletons, they were covered with a layer of grime and dirt that made it impossible to tell whether their skin was pale pink or brown (Ma'Khor knew that with this race several shades existed). _They look mangy_, he thought, disgusted, and found himself beginning to regret that he had paid any attention to them in the first place.

The trader had noticed his less-than-impressed reaction.

"They're a little dirty, sir, but they're quality goods, freshly caught."

Ma'Khor threw him a disbelieving glance and was already about to excuse himself when he noticed the little one. It was very small, hardly reaching up to the hip of the old female whose hand it was holding, and looked less scraggy and ill than the adult Humans. In fact, underneath all the dirt it was what Be'Lin would have called "cute".

"That one," he said, nodding at the little Human. "How old is it?"

"I don't know, sir," the trader said. "But it can't be older than a few years. It's only a pup."

His tone said that the Colonel would be better off purchasing one of the adults, but Ma'Khor knew his wife wouldn't thank him if he brought her one of those filthy, emaciated creatures. That little one, however...

"How much do you want for it?" he asked the trader, pretending to be only half-interested in the man's answer. The trader, resigning to the fact that it was going to be the little Human or no deal at all, began to haggle over the price before Ma'Khor had even mentioned how much he was willing to pay.

"Well, sir, it's quite exotic-looking with those blue eyes and yellow hair... " To prove his point, the trader pulled a rag from his pocket and roughly rubbed some of the dirt out of the little one's hair. It shrank back from the touch and tried to hide behind the female, but Ma'Khor saw that its hair was indeed of a pale shade of yellow. _Be'Lin will love it_, he thought, and the idea lifted his mood considerably.

"I think you're still making a good deal if I sell it to you for 60 _ne'an_," the trader said. Ma'Khor knew that it was far too high a price for the dirty little thing, but he wasn't in the mood for lengthy discussions with the man.

"Agreed," he said, earning a surprised look from the trader. "Is there any way you can clean it up and find some new clothes for it? I want to give it to my wife and she won't be happy if it looks like I pulled it out of a waste disposal."

The trader's lips tightened at Ma'Khor's description of his merchandise. He made no comment, however, and motioned to one of his men who was standing nearby.

"S'kren, you go and take it back to the ship. Wash it, and see if you can find some clean things for it to wear. Just a few minutes, sir," he added to Ma'Khor.

S'kren was visibly disgusted with the job, but all the same, he stepped forward and reached out to pull the little one away from the old female. Ma'Khor was surprised at the commotion his move caused among the Humans. Several of them began talking at once, their alien words sounding agitated and even angry, and the old female rested a protective hand on the little one's back. In the end, S'kren had to use force to separate them. Not surprisingly, the small Human began to cry and squirmed in the man's grip to get away.

S'kren slapped it, which made it cry even harder. "Stop that, you-"

He didn't get very far. One of the adults, a tall, broad shouldered male, had managed to get past the other guards and attacked S'kren with a viciousness that surprised Ma'Khor, shouting something in an alien language as he pushed him away from the little one. The small Human immediately scurried back to the female, hiding its face in her leg.

Several of the guards grabbed the adult and began to beat him with their clubs, while the rest of them drew their weapons and aimed them at the Humans. The slave trader sighed, disgusted.

"I don't know why I put up with these incompetents. S'kren," he nodded at the guard to try again. The female wouldn't let go, and only loosened her grip when S'kren drew his weapon and aimed it at her charge. The guard grabbed the little one and threw it over his shoulder.

"Sir?"

The trader made a weary gesture. "Take it away. But don't damage it, understood?"

"Yes sir." S'kren disappeared in the direction from where the group had come, maintaining a firm hold on Ma'Khor's purchase as it cried and weakly squirmed in his grip. The few people who had stopped to watch the small drama laughed and went back to their shopping.

"It's always the same," the trader told Ma'Khor with the air of someone who is about to launch into a long, often-repeated litany. "And not only with the Humans, mind you. Try to sell one of their pups and they-"

"Do you accept electronic credits?" Ma'Khor interrupted. He wasn't interested in listening to that idiot talking shop. The trader pulled out a padd, a little miffed at being cut off in mid-sentence.

"That'd be 65 _ne'an_, sir."

Ma'Khor raised an eyebrow. "I thought we agreed on sixty. Or do you charge for the show as well?"

The man ignored his sarcasm. "I cannot afford to give away a whole set of new clothes for free, sir."

Ma'Khor refused to dignify that remark with an answer. He watched the trader draw the 65 _ne'an_ from his electronic pay chip and was just about to ask for a signed confirmation when someone spit onto the deck next to his feet. Ma'Khor looked up and saw the male Human staring at him, his brown eyes full of hate. The guard who held him dealt him a blow on the head and jerked him forward, but the Human's eyes were still fixed on Ma'Khor as he whispered a single, hissing word. And even though Ma'Khor didn't understand the alien language, he had a pretty good idea what the Human had said.

Finally, S'kren came back with the little Human in tow. Now that grimy layer of dirt was gone, Ma'Khor saw that the trader had been right about its exotic looks; the fair complexion and yellow hair would certainly find Be'Lin's appreciation. The plain clothes weren't quite what he'd had in mind (even less so since he had paid 5 _ne'an_ for them), but for the time being they would have to suffice.

"Oh no you don't!"

On seeing the other Humans, the little one made a run for the old female, but the trader caught its arm before the whole tug of war could start again. For a few seconds it struggled in his grip, then it gave up and its eyes began to fill with fresh tears.

"If you don't mind, sir," the trader said, glancing at the Humans, "I'd rather you take it away now. I don't want any more unpleasant scenes."

"Neither do I," Ma'Khor said dryly. "My confirmation?"

"Oh. Yes. Here you go." He gave Ma'Khor a small electronic chip. "A pleasure doing business with you, sir."

"Same here," Ma'Khor said, not being quite honest, and grabbed the little one's wrist at the same moment the trader let go of it. "Come on, you."

Up until now, the little Human didn't seem to have realized that they were actually going to leave, but when Ma'Khor started to walk away it understood what was going on and began to cry noisily.

"Be quiet!" Ma'Khor hissed. "People are staring!"

It didn't understand, of course, sobbing loudly and talking rapidly in its language at the same time. Ma'Khor resigned to the fact that there was nothing he could do about the racket it was making, and continued to drag it along between the rows of market vendors until they had reached the exit.

Once outside, he allowed himself a moment's rest. In the meantime, the little Human's noisy sobs had turned into a quiet sniffling, and Ma'Khor felt a slight tugging as it tried to free its hand.

"Stop that," he told it although he knew it didn't understand him. All the same, it stopped squirming and looked up at him, its lower lip quivering as it said a few words in its language. It sounded like a question, but Ma'Khor had no idea what the words meant and he wouldn't have cared either way. Taking a closer look at his new purchase, he saw that it held a bundle of dirty fabric close to its chest. He hadn't noticed before, but apparently the little one had brought along its old clothes, the grimy, yellow shirt and blue trousers it had worn when Ma'Khor had first seen it.

"Give me that," he ordered, holding out a hand. The little Human seemed to understand what Ma'Khor wanted, but shook its head and pressed the clothes even closer to its chest.

"You mustn't disobey me," Ma'Khor said sternly. "You can't keep these things, they're dirty. Now give them to me or I'm going to have to punish you."

The little one was still shaking its head, holding on to the stinking clothes as if they were a lifeline. Ma'Khor's patience wore thin and he snatched the bundle in one quick movement, wrinkling his nose in disgust as he carried it over to a waste chute.

The little Human's face turned chalk-white when Ma'Khor stuffed the dirty clothes down the chute. The Colonel braced himself for the screaming he was sure would follow, but the little one didn't even make a sound. Its hand had grown limp in Ma'Khor's fist, and when he continued down the corridor, it stumbled along without so much as a single protest.

Ma'Khor was surprised, but if the little one had decided that discretion was the better part of valor he was certainly not going to object. The idea of punishing the little Human only to listen to its bawling all the way down to the surface hadn't struck him as very appealing, anyway.

Thinking of what Be'Lin was going to say when she saw his gift, Ma'Khor smiled. For the first time in eighteen weeks he was actually looking forward to going home again.

-------

Entering his wife's suite four hours later, Ma'Khor was greeted by the silence he had expected. Of course, Be'Lin wouldn't bid him a warm welcome when he was ten weeks late; he could count himself lucky if she still talked to him at all.

The door of the bedroom was opened carefully from the inside, and Jin, his wife's personal maid, slipped out with a half-eaten dish of soup. When her eyes fell on him, she quickly set the soup down on a nearby table and bowed while touching her forehead with one hand.

"Jin," he said, allowing her to stand up again. "Is the lady resting?"

"Yes sir. But I am certain she will be delighted to welcome you at home, master."

Nobody knew better than Jin that the lady would be anything but delighted. Ma'Khor's lips twitched.

"I'm sure she will. Ask her if I may come in."

"Yes sir." The slender Andorian disappeared back into her mistress' bedroom. Next to the door, a servant was keeping a watchful eye on the little Human. Not that it was necessary; the little one seemed too frightened to move, its strange blue eyes wide with fear as it stared at the unfamiliar surroundings. Ma'Khor had ordered that it be dressed in an expensive garment made of Tyrellian silk, since he knew that his wife wouldn't appreciate any gift if it wasn't beautifully wrapped. The little Human had let it happen, not protesting when someone took away the clothes S'kren had given it. Strangely enough, it had only been with those tattered old rags that the Human had reacted so vehemently.

The bedroom door opened again, distracting Ma'Khor from his idle musings.

"The mistress says you may enter, sir," Jin said. Her expression told him that the mistress had said a lot more than that, and none of them things that Jin could possibly repeat to her master.

"Very well." He looked at the servant next to the door. "You wait right here, and send it in when I call, understood?"

The servant bowed his head. "Yes sir."

Ma'Khor took a deep breath and entered his wife's bedroom. She was reclining on the couch; a woman in her early fifties whose formerly velvet green skin was now painstakingly covered with several layers of cream each night to maintain at least part of its former beauty. Be'Lin was dressed in one of the flowing robes that she preferred, and on the table before her stood a large assembly of make-up toiletries and cream tubes. When Ma'Khor sat down in the armchair on the other side of the table, she still hadn't looked up from her contemplation of a small bottle of blue nail polish.

Again, he drew in a deep breath before he spoke. "Be'Lin, my love. It is so good to see you." He paused, waiting, but she continued to ignore him. "Love, I know you are angry with me-"

"Oh, do you?" Her eyes were still fixed on the nail polish. "Whyever would I be angry with you, Ma'Khor?"

He sighed inwardly. "Please, Lin. You're upset with me, and I guess you have every right to be. The negotiations took longer than I had expected-"

"Longer than you had expected?" Her voice rose to an unpleasant shrillness. "Eighteen weeks, Ma'Khor! You've been away for eighteen weeks! And then you have the gall to come here and say your negotiations took a little longer than you had expected!"

She slammed the nail polish down on the table, sending several cream tubes flying.

"Do you know that people were beginning to talk about us, saying that you weren't away on a mission but had taken the opportunity to get rid of me?"

_Now there's an idea._ Ma'Khor opened his mouth. "Listen, Lin-"

"No, you listen to me! I don't care what your reasons are, but I will not be treated like that! You think I'm so stupid that I don't notice when you're lying, but... oh..."

She covered her eyes with her hand, but Ma'Khor knew that she wasn't really hiding any tears. Be'Lin hardly ever cried, and certainly not because she thought her husband wasn't telling her the truth. All she was doing was going through the old routine, playing the game they had been playing together as long as he could remember.

"I'm so sorry, Be'Lin," he said, and even managed to sound like he meant it. "I never meant to upset you, or hurt your feelings. I love you, you know that."

"I wish I could believe you," Be'Lin said, sounding like a second-class actress rehearsing her role. "I do wish I could believe you, Ma'Khor."

Knowing that the divorce came next, Ma'Khor decided to skip that part of the game and get directly to the part where she began to reconsider her threat.

"You can believe me, love," he said, smiling. "All I ever thought about during all those weeks was you. I kept thinking how bad it must be for you, being all alone here..."

"Well, it was," she said, and seemed rather relieved herself that they were going to skip the divorce discussion this time. "I missed you, Ma'Khor."

Ma'Khor briefly debated whether it was too early to try and kiss her yet, and decided that it was. Still, she had thawed enough not to give him the cold shoulder treatment when he showed her his gift, and it was going to be all downhill from there.

"I've got a surprise for you, love," he said, relieved when he saw a flicker of genuine interest in her eyes. "You didn't think I'd come back empty-handed, did you?"

She reacted to his playful tone with a gracious little smile. "Well, then let's see what you've got."

Ma'Khor called, and a moment later the door opened again. The servant entered, pushing the little Human into the room, then disappeared again with a small bow of the head. The little one stared at its new surroundings with scared eyes, not moving as it stood next to the door. Ma'Khor was pleased to see an expression of delight cross his wife's face.

"Is that a Human?" she asked excitedly, never waiting for his confirmation. "It's beautiful! Where did you find it?"

"On the space station, love. I thought it might please you."

"It does." Her smile gained warmth. "Thank you, love." She glanced back at the small being that was trembling with fear. "It's still very young, isn't it?"

"Only a few years old, the trader said. It's still a pup."

"Oh." She regarded it for a moment. "Is it male or female?"

"Male, I believe. But I don't think it makes any difference at that age."

Be'Lin reached behind her and took a piece of fruit out of a bowl. Holding it out to the little one, she began to speak in a cooing tone.

"Come here, sweetie, let me look at you. Don't be shy, I'm not going to hurt you."

The little Human only stared at her. Ma'Khor gave it an encouraging look.

"Do what your Mistress says."

It didn't move, and Be'Lin's friendly expression faded. "It's not very well trained, is it?"

"It hasn't learned our language yet, love." Behind her back, Ma'Khor frowned at the little Human and raised a hand to demonstrate what was going to happen if it refused to obey. Its frightened expression told him that it understood. Slowly, reluctantly, it began to walk towards Be'Lin, and the smile returned to her face.

"That's a good boy." She ruffled its hair, turning its head from side to side. The little one didn't seem to enjoy the attention, but it didn't dare to pull away either. "Aren't you a cute little thing. And... it's got blue eyes!" She looked up. "You must have paid a fortune, Ma'Khor!"

"Oh, I think I made a good deal," he said dryly and accepted a quick hug and kiss from her. "I'm happy when you are, love."

Be'Lin smiled at him and turned back to her new object of affection. "Does it have a name?"

"I wouldn't know." Ma'Khor smiled thinly. "I never asked it."

Be'Lin frowned; she had never been one to appreciate irony. "I'm sure that it understands a little of our language," she said as if anything else were ridiculous. "What is your name, sweetie?"

The little Human, of course, didn't answer, staring back at her with wide, frightened eyes. Ma'Khor noticed that it was rather pale in the face, and clutching its stomach with one hand.

"Lin..." he began, but Be'Lin silenced him with a gesture.

"Wait, I think it understands what I'm saying. Come on, sweetie, tell me your name."

To Ma'Khor's surprise, the being did say a few words in its language, its voice sounding small and scared. He doubted that it had said its name, though - if it even had one, that was.

"No, dear," Be'Lin frowned. "Talk properly. What is your name?"

Ma'Khor saw the little Human draw a hitching breath and opened his mouth to warn her, but it was too late. The little one swayed, and a second later threw up all over the lady's elegant house slippers. Splotches of the watery vomit spattered her bare ankles, sprinkling the hem of her robe.

Be'Lin shrieked with anger and disgust, then slapped the little one so hard it went sprawling on the floor. Its sobs were drowned out by her angry yelling.

"Look at that! Look at my feet! Oh, that's disgusting-"

Ma'Khor called for Jin, and a few moments later the maid magically appeared with a towel and a wet cloth.

"Some present," Be'Lin said angrily while allowing the maid to clean her up. "I don't want that thing in here when it's sick."

The little Human was still curled up on the floor, hiding its face in its arms. Violent shudders ran through its small body. Ma'Khor, fearing for his expensive carpet, called for the servant who immediately appeared in the door.

"Sir?"

Ma'Khor nodded at the Human. "Take it away and lock it up somewhere. A place where there's no floor covering," he added as a second thought.

"Yes sir." The servant bent down and picked up the small being. It was trembling uncontrollably, and didn't offer any resistance when he hoisted it over his shoulder.

Watching the man walk out with the little Human, Ma'Khor sighed and prepared himself for another one of his wife's angry tirades. Next time he was going to stick to the flitters when he needed another gift of reconciliation.

--------

The door slammed shut, leaving only darkness behind. Trip sat on the cold hard floor where the man had dropped him, and for a moment all he saw were the bright, dancing spots in front of his eyes. His cheek was still throbbing where the green lady had hit him; it hurt bad enough to bring fresh tears to his eyes.

He raised a hand and felt something warm and sticky on his upper lip, something that was coming out of his nose. Blood, he realized. There was blood on his face.

A low whimper rose in Trip's throat. Nosebleeds weren't dangerous, he knew that. Andy sometimes bled from the nose, and Mommy would give him a wet towel for his neck and tell him to sit still until it stopped. But he was bleeding because the lady had hit him, and that made it a lot worse.

The room around him was dark; darker even than the basement at home, and that was the scariest place Trip knew. There were no windows, and the only light was coming in through the small gap under the door. In the back of the room loomed the dark shape of... something, and for a brief, terrible moment Trip thought it was alive, moving and coming closer. He remembered that monster show Andy and he had watched when Mommy had been out shopping, how the fanged, hissing creatures had lurked in the dark waiting for their next victim. Then, with Andy sitting next to him, Trip had laughed and acted unimpressed, but now these monsters became terribly real. What if they were really waiting for him in here, ready to tear him apart because he had laughed at them?

Suddenly all Trip knew was that he needed to be out of here, now. He scrambled to his feet and almost was sick again, but there was nothing left in his stomach to throw up. Sobbing with terror, he ran to the door and pulled at the handle, but the door didn't move. It was locked. He was locked in here with a monster waiting to rip out his throat.

His own shriek startled him, and without realizing what he was doing he began to rattle the door handle, crying for his mom and dad. Andy would have said he was acting like one of those preschool crybabies, but Trip couldn't stop, even though deep down he knew that his Mommy and Daddy couldn't hear him, that there was no one out there who was going to open the door and let him out.

He screamed himself hoarse, and when he couldn't scream anymore he threw up a few drops of spit and curled up to a small ball next to the streak of light from under the door. Glancing at the monster in the back of the room, Trip saw that it looked very much like a huge cupboard, but he was too confused and terrified to draw the logical conclusion.

_It's going to eat me later, _he thought, and felt oddly resigned to the idea._ They only come out at night, and it's not night yet._.

But it would come. He knew that.

"I wanna go home," he whispered, talking to himself and his parents and the monster and at the same time to no one at all. "Please oh please oh please, I wanna go home again."

Mrs. Parson, his preschool teacher who had also been on the green people's ship, had told him that they were going to go home soon. "It's alright," she had said when he had cried, stroking his hair and hugging him. "It's alright, don't cry, honey. They're going to take us back home again."

One of the other grown-ups, a man Trip had sometimes seen working at the supermarket checkout, had become angry with Mrs. Parson. "What you're doing is cruel," he had said, although Trip had no idea why Mrs. Parson would be cruel. He hadn't caught her answer for she had spoken very softly, but after that the man had turned away without another word.

Every day, Trip had asked her when they were going to go home, and every day he had received the same answer: "Soon."

She'd never said "today" or "tomorrow", though, and now, sitting in the dark, he remembered how strange her voice had sounded. Like his parents' voices when they talked about Things The Kids Are Not Supposed To Know, and had to do so in front of Andy and Trip.

But Mrs. Parson wouldn't lie to him, would she? She had let him sleep next to her, had comforted him when he woke up at night and cried, so surely she wouldn't lie to him. No, she was a teacher; she wouldn't lie, of course not.

Trip shivered and hid his hands in his armpits to warm them up. It was cold in here, and the strange, smooth clothes felt icy on his skin. He hated them. He hated them, and he hated the man who had taken away his things - the cut-off jeans and Andy's old smiley tee-shirt - and stuffed them into the waste container as if they were nothing but garbage. Trip didn't know why thinking of his old clothes would hurt so much, but it did. It hurt worse than his swollen cheek, empty stomach and sore body put together, and he rested his head on his knees and cried a little, mostly so he could make himself forget about the hollow ache in his chest.

Mrs. Parson had lied to him. Trip didn't want to believe it, but a voice at the back of his mind, a voice that seemed to be a lot older than four years, told him that it was so. He wasn't going to go home soon, or in a few weeks. It wasn't going to happen.

_Never Ever._ That was a thing Andy and his friend Dave used to say._ Never Ever_ would they lend their comic books to Trip (because he would only ruin them), and _Never Ever_ would they go into the haunted house down in Calhoun Street where Dave's aunt had seen a ghost a few years ago.

Never Ever. It was what Andy had said when Mommy's Uncle Steve had died. After they had gone to bed that night, Trip had asked his big brother if dead people ever came back (secretly hoping that it was not so). Andy had shaken his head. "Never Ever," he had said. "They put 'em in a box an' then in a grave an' put earth on 'em an' they can't get out again. _Never Ever."_

Andy hadn't said "they put 'em in a dark room with a monster and lock the door", but it probably didn't matter. They couldn't get out again - _Never Ever_ - and he couldn't get out of here, either. And no one was going to open the door and let him out. Trip had cried himself hoarse calling for someone to help him, but he had known all along that no one would come.

"When are we going to let him out again?" the green man would say to the lady when they heard him begging them to open the door.

She'd consider, then frown angrily. "He was sick all over my shoes, remember? We're not going to let him out. Never Ever."

And the man would nod. "You're right. He can stay in there till he rots."

Trip didn't know what "till he rots" meant (it was another thing he had heard from Andy), but it sounded bad. Nasty. He had a vague idea that it had something to do with dead people, and it didn't surprise him at all. So maybe this wasn't a box with earth on it, but it still was a place where you couldn't get out. Dead people never came back, and he was never going to go home again. _Never Ever._

After that, even the monster lost its fearfulness. Trip wouldn't have cared if it had come from its hiding place at the back of the room and ripped him open with its claws; maybe he wouldn't even have run from it. He buried his head in his arms and cried for what seemed like forever. Shortly after he finally fell asleep, someone switched off the light outside the room. The narrow streak of light next to the door disappeared, and for the next two days he was left in complete darkness.

--------------------------------

"They only got you out of there after _two days_?" Malcolm tried to imagine a four-year-old child locked up in a dark basement for two days, and found that he couldn't.

Trip nodded. "I think they just forgot about me. I guess there was a big party to welcome the Colonel at home, and they were too drunk to think of anything. It was probably by lucky coincidence that one of them went in there and found me."

Malcolm saw the pain in his eyes as he said it. Trip was carefully trying to hide it, relating his memories of being sold to the Orion officer in a soft, emotionless voice, but nevertheless it was there, hidden under the surface.

"And then?" he asked quietly. "After they'd let you out? Who took care of you?"

"No one." Trip shrugged. "A few times, the mistress dressed me up to show me off to some guests, but mostly I was left to my own devices. Spent most of the time trying to steal food. Later it was my job to help in the kitchen, but I often disappeared for a few days without anyone noticing. That house was so big, you could hide for weeks and no one noticed you were gone."

Reading between the lines, Malcolm could imagine what kind of life Trip had led at Ma'Khor's house; sleeping in a corner, snatching whatever scrap of food he could get and learning to hate the world he lived in.

"How did you come to be on Kareedia?" he asked.

Trip ran a hand over his face, and the UT kicked in when he answered in Kareedian: "Maybe I can tell you another day."

Malcolm realized how exhausting it must be to relive these doubtlessly traumatic experiences. Back at the foster home, a few of the older kids had once locked him into the basement as some sort of practical joke. Malcolm had only been five years old at the time, but he could still vividly remember the agony he had suffered in that dark, scary place. And he had been down there for only an hour before one of the caretakers found him.

Suddenly he felt the wish to do something nice for Trip; something that was completely different from situation room meetings and reliving nightmares from the past.

He smiled. "Have you ever been to a movie night, Trip?"

Trip shook his head. "What's that?"

"People gathering in a room to watch a film, usually in the evening. We have one every week; the human part of the crew, I mean. I believe they're showing a comedy tonight. Would you like to go?"

Trip nodded, and Malcolm noticed that the sad, faraway expression in his eyes had been replaced by curiosity. "Do you think Sara and Sammy would enjoy this... film as well?"

"Movie night starts at 2000, so it might be a little late for them. But you can always get it from the database so they can watch it in the afternoon."

"I will." Trip smiled at him. "Thank you. I would love to go to movie night."

From the way he said the word, Malcolm realized that he still had no idea what this film-watching business was about, but on the other hand he seemed genuinely pleased at the invitation.

"Good. I'll pick you up at your quarters at 1950."

Trip nodded and was silent for a while. Then he said, so softly that Malcolm almost missed the words: "Remember when I told you that I was glad we're here with you?"

Malcolm nodded.

Trip held his gaze. "I don't want Sara and Sammy to live like I have. It's not..." He struggled for the right words. "It makes you become a bad person."

Malcolm startled. "You're not a bad person, Trip."

"Maybe not. But maybe I am, too. Sometimes I'm so full of hate I can think of nothing else. And sometimes I hate myself." He paused. "I was always like that before I had the children. You wouldn't have wanted to be my friend then."

This time Malcolm didn't have to think about it, laying a hand on Trip's arm before he even realized what he was doing. "But I'm your friend now, and I don't think you're a bad person because you feel that way. Anyone would."

Again, he found himself unable to find the right words - like Hoshi or Jonathan undoubtedly would have - but it seemed enough for Trip, who nodded.

Together, they left the observation deck, and Malcolm was surprised when he saw that only an hour had passed. Trip's story was still vividly in his mind when he left for the Armory, and he couldn't stop thinking about it even when he went to the Captain's ready room for the confidential debriefing. He remembered what the other man had said about becoming a bad person, and tried not to think of what life might have done to his mother in all the years that she had been gone. For the first time, Malcolm began to understand why his father hadn't found the strength to go on.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	10. Chapter 9

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T (please note that there's some "rude language" in this chapter (Trip's fault, not mine ;-) ). Anyway, I hope it won't offend anyone)

AN: Thank you for reviewing!

Tata (thank you! good to hear you like the mix of past and present, that part was a lot of fun to write), Emiliana Keladry (yes, he'd be happy... and maybe a little scared, too), stage manager (here goes ;-)...), RoaringMice (I see what you mean... Ma'Khor was sort of a writing experiment, and maybe I got a little carried away :-)... Part II will be only from Trip's POV), firebirdgirl (thank you... there's more about Malcolm's past yet to come. Happy reading!), Luna (exactly... he must have seen the entire world as his enemy, eventually), bunsdarien (thank you! I'm afraid it's not going to be so easy, though -evil grin-), Rinne (thank you!), JadziaKathryn (I'm glad you're enjoying the story; and yes, you'll see more of Commander Soval yet ;-) ), MuseUrania (thank you, please keep telling me what you think!), Parisfan (yes, we're going to have a closer look at both Trip's and Malcolm's past), The Libran Iniquity (no gloom and doom? Oh well, I guess I can live with that ;-)... und ja, das war ein böses Grinsen -g-), Maraschino for Chapter 7 and 8 (please let me know what you think of Part II!)

Keep telling me what you think, it's interesting to get lots of different point of views on the story!

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Chapter 9

Trip thoroughly enjoyed movie night. Several times, he laughed out loud (which Malcolm had never seen him do before), and the next day he and the children watched the movie a second time, on their console with the UT linked in. Neither Sara nor Sammy had ever seen a movie before, and, quoting his son, Trip told Malcolm that Sammy had found it "the funnest thing he had ever done".

Malcolm was surprised how fast Trip picked up the technical details of life on Enterprise. Even though he couldn't read the signs that came with devices like the turbo lift controls and the resequencer in the mess hall, he instinctively seemed to know how these things worked, and how you could fix them if they didn't.

A few days after their conversation on the observation deck, Malcolm dropped by Trip's quarters only to find the whole family gathered in the bathroom. Trip, his back to the door, was crouched over something on the wall next to the shower stall. Sara watched her father's every move with rapt attention and was too focussed to notice anything else, but Sammy bounded toward Malcolm once he had seen him standing in the doorway.

"Hello Malcolmreed!" He held out his arms to be picked up. "Daddy's fixing the fountain!"

Malcolm lifted the little boy up and smiled. "Really?"

Trip spoke up, his eyes still on the wall where he had removed the panel. "That's a shower, Sammy, not a..."

Realizing who Sammy had been talking to, he quickly turned around. Malcolm was secretly amused to see that he looked like a little boy himself; a little boy who has been caught with his hand in the cookie jar.

"Oh! I... I'm sorry, I didn't hear you coming." Guiltily, Trip glanced at the open panel where a few wire ends were sticking out of the wall. "The shower wouldn't work, and I thought I might be able to fix it."

Malcolm opened his mouth to tell Trip that a minor malfunction had occurred with parts of the piping system and that maintenance was on their way, but he never got the chance. A sudden spray from the shower head came down on them, sprinkling all over Trip who was standing next to the open shower stall.

"It works!" Sara jumped up and down with excitement. "You fixed it, Daddy!"

Malcolm gave Trip a surprised look. "How did you know what to do?"

"Oh, it took us a while to figure it out," Sara said, obviously feeling that her supervision had played a decisive role in the matter. "First we tried to stick the red wire into one of the blue boxes, but that only made sparks come out of the wall. Then we took the yellow wire-"

"That's okay, honey," Trip said, his cheeks reddening when Sara mentioned the part about the sparks. He reached out to turn off the water. "I'm sorry, I-"

"You fixed the shower," Malcolm smiled. "That's amazing. You must be quite a gifted engineer."

Trip seemed embarrassed, and avoided Malcolm's eyes as he reattached the panel to the wall. "I sometimes tinkered around with some of the farm equipment," he said. "It was no big deal."

"He fixed the harvester once when it broke down," Sara said proudly, not at all concerned by the look her father was giving her. "The old scumbag said he would have had to buy a new one if Daddy hadn't fixed it."

Trip frowned. "That's not a nice word, Sara."

Malcolm had come to notice that Trip wouldn't tolerate any "dirty" language with his children, just as he took their personal hygiene and overall neatness very seriously. Sara and Sammy were always clean and neatly dressed, and Trip was very strict when it came to their manners.

This time, however, Sara didn't accept the rebuke with her usual obedience. "You called him a scumbag yourself, Daddy," she said. "He's not here, he can't hear me. And that's exactly what he is - a scumbag."

To Malcolm's surprise, a faint smile tugged at Trip's mouth as he answered. "I'm not going to argue with you there, honey. But I still don't want you to use that word."

He caught Malcolm's inquiring look. "The Kareedian who ran the farm. He was not a very... pleasant person."

"I can imagine he wasn't." Malcolm remembered what Sara had said before. "If you like, I could ask Commander Archer to show you around Engineering one of these days."

He expected Trip to hesitate; the man was always very reluctant when it came to "disturbing" anyone. This time, however, he nodded immediately, his eyes sparkling in a way Malcolm had seen before when Trip had come across a particularly interesting piece of machinery.

"I'd love to."

Of course, Sara and Sammy begged to be allowed to go, too, and so, on the same afternoon, Jonathan Archer found himself explaining the warp engine's functions to two awed children and a man who had more questions than any engineering manual could answer.

When Archer told Malcolm later about Trip's visit to Engineering, Malcolm could see that the Commander had taken a genuine liking to the man. Which wasn't surprising; in his passion for technical details, Trip was a kindred spirit, and more than willing to listen for hours when Archer explained a particularly fascinating detail about the power flow or the plasma distribution. After that first tour, Trip regularly went down to Engineering and soon Archer would allow him to assist the staff with some of the less complicated repairs. As the Commander put it, anything to do with engineering came to Trip as naturally as learning alien languages came to Hoshi.

Archer's comments still in mind, Malcolm asked Trip if he could imagine working as an engineer at some point in the future. Trip hesitated before he answered.

"It's what I always wanted to do," he said. "Working with machinery, I mean. But I don't think anyone'll want me to work for them. I mean, I can't even read and write."

"You'll learn," Malcolm answered. "And even if you do have some problems, you can still get a job."

Trip nodded, but he didn't look convinced. Malcolm knew that he was thinking about his children, and what they were going to do once they were back on Earth. For go back to Earth they would; in a few months, Enterprise was going to return from her first five-year mission and stay in dry-dock until Starfleet and the Joint Forces decided when - or if - she was going to leave for her next expedition. Malcolm and Trip had talked about the impending return, and Trip seemed willing to do almost anything to ensure that his children received the best education they could get. Never once, however, did he mention his family - the parents and siblings that had been mentioned in Charles Tucker the Third's personal file - and Malcolm decided not to broach the subject if Trip didn't say anything about it. Hoshi had (without Trip's knowledge) done a few researches, and found out that Susan and Charles Tucker II still lived in Florida, in the same town that had been attacked by the Orion Raiders so many years ago. It would be no problem to contact them, but Malcolm knew that Trip had to do so himself. If he had decided that he wasn't ready yet to talk to them, then Malcolm wasn't going to push him.

In the meantime, Trip spent most of his time poring over padds and papers, and at the same time keeping an eye on his children's schoolwork. Hoshi had made it her business to teach him and the children how to read and write, and downloaded every learning program she could get from the database when she began her lessons. Her two older students worked hard (a little too hard on Trip's part, who saw a personal failure in every error or mistake he made), and soon Sara was able to have simple conversations in English, although she tended to switch back to Kareedian when she became tired. Sammy picked up English words and expressions with a young child's natural ease, but he wasn't a particularly diligent student, and hated to sit still for a longer period of time. Hoshi reassured Trip that Sammy could take his time, since he had started "school" at about the same age as the children back on Earth. And although Sammy's father insisted that the little boy wrote his ten lines of letters every day, he had grown more relaxed, taking into consideration that Sammy was, after all, only four.

"He'll come up with all sorts of tricks," Trip told Malcolm in a half-exasperated, half-amused tone one evening on the observation deck. They had taken up the habit of meeting there on a regular basis, to talk or sometimes just to sit in silence, Malcolm studying his armory reports and Trip poring over his lesson of the day. "Today he got away with only half of his assignment done, teaching Hoshi Kareedian instead of doing his schoolwork."

"Don't worry," Malcolm said, and bit back a grin when he remembered how charming Sammy could be if he saw a chance to have fun instead of reading stupid lines. "Most children back on Earth only start to read at the age of five or six. He's doing great as it is. And Hoshi told me that Sara is a quicker study than some of her students at university."

"She told me so, too." Trip's voice spoke of barely concealed pride. "At first, I was afraid she might not be able to catch up with the other children of her age, but now I'm confident that she will. She's going to start school as soon as we're back on Earth."

Malcolm was silent for a moment, thinking that her reading proficiencies weren't going to be Sara's only problem. The girl was slowly starting to come out of her shell, to behave more like a child, but Malcolm never lost the impression that she was actually a lot older than nine years. But he didn't say anything. Trip was so confident when he talked about his children's future, and Malcolm couldn't bring himself to dampen his friend's attitude.

"I know it's not going to be easy," Trip said as if he had read Malcolm's mind. "There's so much that she has to learn, and I won't be able to help her with her schoolwork and... other things. I wish..." Trip hesitated. "Sometimes I wish it was Deborah raising the children instead of me. She'd do a far better job than I ever will."

"Deborah?" Malcolm repeated quietly, remembering what Trip had told him about Sara's and Sammy's mother being dead. "Was she your wife?"

A bitter smile, mixed with sadness, crossed Trip's face. "I don't think you would call her my wife."

Malcolm waited. For a while, Trip only stared down at his padd. Then he said, in an absentminded tone as if he were talking to himself rather than Malcolm: "Remember when I told you I didn't want Sara and Sammy to live like I have?"

Malcolm nodded.

"They're the best thing that's ever happened to me. And they're great children. When I was Sara's age, I was a mean little bastard."

Malcolm opened his mouth, but Trip continued before he could say anything.

"It's the truth. The only thing I thought about was how I could get back at people for the things they'd done to me. That, and food. I remember one time when I put poisonous detergent into the cook's dinner because he had thrashed me for trying to steal a slice of bread. He almost died that night."

"What happened to you?"

"They never found out that it was me. The cook, of course, knew. He beat me black and blue the day he was able to get out of bed again. And I decided that I was going to take more detergent next time."

"Did you?"

Trip who was still looking down at the padd in his hands, shook his head. "He was smart enough to lock away all poisonous chemicals from that day on. But I think I would have tried again if I'd had the chance."

A moment's silence followed.

"You were a child, Trip," Malcolm said then.

"I was a child, yes. And I knew exactly what I was doing."

_Yes, I think you did._ Malcolm didn't believe that Trip's attempt to poison the cook had been made with the cold-blooded intention to kill, but he doubted the boy would have felt any real remorse if his tormentor had actually snuffed it that night.

"It was a reaction to the circumstances."

Trip said nothing. His face was troubled, and Malcolm knew that he wouldn't accept his "circumstances" as an excuse. To a certain extent, Malcolm could sympathize; some people tended to excuse his many social shortcomings with the fact that he had grown up without parents. Malcolm hated the way they carefully phrased those excuses; _never experienced parental love, came from a broken family, no wonder he's never learned how to socialize_. And it only added to his disgust when he realized that they might be telling the truth.

"You never told me how you came to be on Kareedia."

Trip raised his eyes, and Malcolm added: "You said it's a long story. And I believe the episode with the cook is only a small part of it."

"It is a long story." This time, Trip did not use the Kareedian expression. "Too long, I think."

"Tell me."

And he did.

Part II

"Asshole!" the boy screamed. "You limpdick bastard, let go!"

The servant who was dragging him down the hallway didn't even look at him. "Shut up, _sev'im_."

A second later he stumbled as the boy landed a solid kick on his right leg. "Let me go!"

"Why you-"

The boy never cried out when the servant slapped him, but he stopped struggling. His small face was a grimace of hate and helpless anger, an expression that had become second nature to him over the years.

"You eat shit!" he hissed. "You fucking asshole, you go lick you mother's-"

This time, he received a slap so hard it made his eyes water, but he didn't cry. The boy hardly ever cried.

"Asshole," he whispered. "I hate you."

That was nothing new; the boy hated almost everyone he knew, and it seemed that the feeling was mutual. It was a good feeling, hating someone. It made you feel strong. People hated you back when you hated them. They might hurt you, they might even try to kill you, but that way they acknowledged that you existed. Sometimes the boy felt that it was only his hate that kept him alive.

"Damn little bastard," the servant muttered as he jerked him forward. "Getting rid of filth like you is the best idea the old man had in a long time."

"I not go away!" the boy said angrily.

The servant laughed. "Oh yes, you go away," he mocked the boy's broken _MoH'kwan_. "And not a day too soon either."

The boy fell silent. He had heard the rumors that people were going to be sent away, now that the Lady had died and the Master was going to move to the city. But no one had said it was him who was going to go, had they? He couldn't imagine leaving this place. He had been here for as long as he could think, and he was used to it. It was familiar. The boy realized that he didn't want to go away.

"I not go," he repeated, but his voice sounded a little unsteady. "I stay here."

"You'd like that." The servant opened a small door that led to the yard and pushed the boy outside. The first thing the boy noticed was the huge spacecraft that was parked several dozen meters away from the house. Then he saw the people gathered in front of it, and knew that the servant had been telling the truth. These people were here because Ma'Khor was sending them away. And he was going to be sent away as well.

"Bastard," he whispered because he didn't know what else to say. "Bastard. I not go away."

"Is that the last one?" Ma'Khor, who had been talking to a bearded stranger, frowned at the servant. "Why the hell did it take so long?"

"I'm sorry, sir." The servant tightened his grip on the boy's arm. "The little bastard wouldn't come along when I told him to."

The bearded stranger came closer, and the boy saw that he looked very different from the _MoH'kwan_. His skin was of a pale, pasty red, interrupted by a dark green pattern around his eyes and ears. Involuntarily, the boy bared his teeth at the man, and shrank back when the stranger reached out for his arm.

Bastard. The word pounded in his head, closing up his throat. Fucking bastard.

"Is that a Human?" the red-faced man asked, and looked the boy up and down with the air of someone who doesn't like what he is seeing. "I don't know if I have any use for him. How old is he?"

"We've had him for five or six years," Ma'Khor said carefully. "I think he's about ten years old.

"Ten years," the redface repeated as if Ma'Khor had pointed out a particularly nasty disease. "And he looks half-starved. I need men and women who can do hard work. Farm work. The farmers back on Kareedia can't afford to feed up a sick kid."

"Oh, he won't need feeding up," Ma'Khor said quickly. "He's stronger than he looks. And in a few years he will be able to do adult work."

"Is that so." The stranger sighed, waving at the servant. "Well, never mind, one more or less doesn't matter."

The servant yanked at the boy's arm to get him moving, but the boy wouldn't budge. "I not go!"

"Get a move on, _sev'im_!" Ma'Khor hissed with a side-glance at the stranger. "Now!"

"_Sev'im_ yourself!" The boy didn't know where the words had come from. Calling Ma'Khor a "little bastard" was an unwise move, but he was so angry he could not stop himself. Hatred had swept over him like a hot wave when he had listened to their conversation. The stranger didn't want him, which was no surprise; the boy could not remember any occasion when someone had actually wanted him. But he wanted to stay here, and his anger boiled up when he realized that they were going to take him away from the only place he knew. "_Sev'im_ yourself! I hate you!"

Ma'Khor's eyes narrowed as he turned around to look at the boy. "Asking for a proper goodbye, are you?"

The boy gave no sound while the Orion beat him up, and there were no tears in his eyes when the stranger dragged him over to stand with the rest of the people who were going to be sent away. Only later, when he lay curled up in a corner of the cargo hold, did he cry. The boy told himself he was crying because of the pain in his bruised bottom and empty stomach, but deep in his mind he knew that it wasn't true. Now that they had taken him away from the only place he had ever known, he was completely alone again. For the first time since he could remember, there wasn't even anyone he could hate.

---------

Several weeks later, after endless days in the cargo hold of the red-faced man's ship, the boy lay in another corner in a different vehicle, one that was taking him to his new master's farm. The boy hardly remembered what had happened on the space station; at some point, someone had pressed a hypospray against his neck, and after that his memories were blurred shapes at the best. A man had come and led him away, and he hadn't tried to fight him. They had walked down noisy hallways, the boy feeling as though he was walking in a big bubble made of iridescent colors. It was a nice feeling, in its own strange way, and the boy had welcomed it fiercely. Anything that made the hunger cramps disappear was welcome at that point.

The man, another redface, had locked him into the loading space of his flitter and left again. The boy had curled up in a corner and fallen asleep, dreaming of strange, shapeless places and weird sounds that hurt his ears.

The iridescent bubble was gone when he woke up. The deck beneath him was moving, and the boy felt sicker than he ever had before. Retching and gagging, he knelt in his corner, but he couldn't throw up because there was nothing in his stomach. A few times, he believed his guts were going to come spilling out of his mouth and he desperately tried to suppress the urge to vomit, but to no use. It took more than half an hour for his stomach to settle again. When it was over, the boy lay down on the plastic floor covering and hoped that he was going to die. Maybe it only took a while for the poison to infiltrate every part of his body. The boy waited; if he was lucky, it would finish him off before the flitter reached its destination. Nothing happened, though, and after a while even the nausea began to subside. Whatever had been in the hypospray had been too weak; it hadn't succeeded in killing him.

The boy buried his face in his arms and tried to think of nothing at all.

He woke up to a voice barking words he couldn't understand. The boy raised his head and saw that the flitter's rear hatch had been opened. Instinctively, he scrambled as far away from the opening as he could, out of the red-faced man's reach.

"Bastard," he hissed, baring his teeth. So maybe he wouldn't have cared if the poison had killed him, but he wasn't going to give them another chance to try and do away with him. That was what the bastards wanted, they wanted him dead, and he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction. "You go away fucking bastard."

The redface didn't seem to understand what the boy was calling him. He didn't react to the insult in any way, and only repeated what he had said before, this time in a rather impatient tone. The boy didn't move. He knew that the man wanted him to get out of the flitter, but there was no way he was going to let them poison him.

He expected the redface to climb inside and drag him out, but the stocky man didn't seem inclined to do acrobatics in order to get his reluctant purchase out of the flitter's cramped rear compartment. Instead he turned around to someone, a tall man who had been waiting motionlessly in the background. The boy heard him say a few words to the man, and another spike of anger and fear went through him as he realized that he did not understand a word of what they said.

"Bastards," he whispered; that was a word he understood, and knew very well. "Go away bastards."

A movement in front of the hatch caught his attention; the redface had left. The boy watched like a hawk as the tall stranger slowly and carefully sat down in the open hatch. He was not a redface; the boy had to take only one look to see that he was different. His skin was of a dark olive, and in the dusty light of the evening sun it seemed almost golden. The straight, black hair enclosed his head like a cap, the tips of his tilted eyebrows almost touching the bangs that covered the man's forehead. What caught the boy's attention, however, were the ears. He had never seen such ears before, and involuntarily raised a hand to his own left ear which seemed very small and round in comparison.

"Bastard," he said, more as an expression of surprise than an expletive. The man's face never changed, except for a flicker of something that might have been amusement.

"My name is Sarin," he said in _MoH'kwan_. "I am a Vulcan. What are you called?"

For a few seconds, the boy only stared at the tall, pointy-eared stranger. The man's face and voice were calm and collected, which meant that he was up to something. The boy knew that if he fell for it, if he came closer, the man would haul him out of the car and beat him up for his name-calling. Or maybe he would save himself the trouble and go for the poisonous hypospray right away.

"Bastard."

"I am not familiar with that word," the man called Sarin said. "I speak only limited _MoH'kwan._ Is that your name? _Sev_?"

The word for "bastard" was _sev'im_, but the Vulcan had only caught the first syllable. Sev. The boy remained silent.

"Very well. I realize that you do not trust me. I cannot change anything about that fact. But Ja'Lin has ordered me to look after you, and that is exactly what I will do. Do you understand that, Sev?"

His calm tone allowed no contradiction. The boy tried to find enough anger within himself to hate the man, but somehow, the familiar emotion wouldn't apply to Sarin.

He said nothing, and the Vulcan continued.

"I have no wish to harm you. But I will not accept disobedience. As long as I am responsible for your actions, you will do exactly as I say. Is that clear?"

Despite his fear and distrust, the boy realized that the man's words held no threat. Sarin was simply stating the facts, setting the basic rules of the life that awaited the boy in this strange, unfamiliar place. And while the boy would not have realized it, he fiercely welcomed those rules. Back at Ma'Khor's place, he had known exactly what was expected of him - namely do what he was told and keep quiet the rest of the time. He had disobeyed these rules as often as not, but they had given him a structure to live by. Do what you are told, and they'll leave you alone. Disobey, and you will have to suffer the consequences.

Sarin was offering him a similar structure, and the boy surprised himself and the Vulcan by answering to the man's last question.

"Is clear, yes."

"Good." Sarin got up. "Now get out of the flitter."

The boy didn't move. He remembered the hypospray and the terrible nausea that had followed, and realized that he'd rather accept Sarin's punishment than let himself be poisoned again.

The Vulcan, however, didn't seem inclined to punish him. His calm features never changed as regarded the skinny, trembling child that cowered in the back of Ja'Lin's flitter.

"I thought you were going to obey me," he said.

The boy fought an inner battle - he never told anyone anything, and for good reason - but then he blurted out: "I not get out. They try to kill me. Make me sick again. I not let them."

"Someone tried to kill you?" The Vulcan sat back down in the hatch. "I do not understand."

"They-" The boy mimicked someone holding a hypospray against his neck. "I feel sick. But I not die. I..."

His words failed him. The boy sensed something hot and burning rise behind his eyes, but he blinked away the tears before they could trickle down his cheeks. He felt so tired, and in a way more lonely than ever before.

"Bastard," he whispered hoarsely, drawing his knees to his chest. "Bastard."

Sarin was silent for a while, then stood up again. "I will be back in a moment."

The boy waited, his throat constricting with fear. He knew the Vulcan had gone to get a stick or a whip, that it was only a matter of time until he was going to be dragged out of the flitter and punished by the hands of this man who had never even raised his voice against him. The worst thing was that he couldn't hate him. Back with the _MoH'kwan_, the boy had received his share of punishment, and he had hated every single one of his tormentors for the pain they inflicted on him. But he couldn't hate the Vulcan, and that left him helpless.

When Sarin came back, the boy hid his face against the wall and closed his eyes. He was going to take his punishment like he always did, without making a sound, and maybe the Vulcan wouldn't notice how confused, how hurt and tired and lonely he was. A minute passed in silence. When no one grabbed his arm and pulled him outside, the boy carefully turned around again. Sarin was sitting in the hatch, holding a small dish which was filled with assorted bits and pieces that looked like dinner left-overs. The boy's stomach tightened painfully, and he couldn't take his eyes off the plate. Of course, the Vulcan couldn't be planning to give that food to him. He had disobeyed, he had called him names, and according to the rules he was going to suffer the consequences. Maybe withholding the food was going to be part of his punishment.

"You must be hungry," Sarin said. "Maybe you will feel better if you eat something."

Slowly, keeping his hands where the boy could see them, he set the dish down next to him on the floor. The boy saw chunks of bread and meat as well as several small, juicy-looking fruits, and his stomach cramped so hard he almost felt sick again. Part of him knew that it could be another trick, that the food might be nothing more than a bait to lure him out of his hiding place. But he couldn't bring himself to care. Even if this was a trick, he could try and grab a few bites before the Vulcan snatched the dish away.

Carefully, the boy began to creep forward, his eyes darting from the food to the Vulcan and back to the food. When he was almost close enough for the Vulcan to reach him, he froze. Hungry or not, he couldn't bring himself to come any closer. Sarin reached out for the plate and the boy was about to scramble back into the flitter when he realized what the Vulcan was doing. Calmly, Sarin pushed the dish to where the boy could reach it.

For the next few minutes, the boy forgot all about tricks and baits and poisonous hyposprays. He gulped down the food so hastily he almost threw it up again, hardly noticing the alien taste of what he was eating. When he was finished, he even licked the crumbs off the plate and used his fingertips to catch whatever tiny piece of bread had escaped his tongue.

The Vulcan watched him, and when the boy was finished he held out a glass.

"Here."

This time, Sarin did not set the glass down for the boy to pick it up, and after only a moment's hesitation the boy took it from the Vulcan's hand. The water cleared his thoughts in a way the food had not, and for the first time he realized that he was sitting well within Sarin's reach, close enough for the Vulcan to grab him. Nothing happened, though, and gradually, the boy allowed himself to relax. So maybe it hadn't been a trick, after all.

He did not smile when he looked at the Vulcan - it was years ago that he had smiled at anyone - but the rigid grimace of fear faded to a softer, more childlike expression.

"I not leave any food for you."

"Do not worry," the Vulcan told him. "I have already had my _ko'brehn_."

The boy frowned.

"That means "evening meal" in the language you are going to use," Sarin explained. "_Ronaj k'veh ko'brehn tu'a._"

Instead of repeating the sentence, the boy asked in _MoH'kwan_: "Your language?"

Sarin raised an eyebrow. "No. My mother tongue is Vulcan. The language I used is spoken here on Kareedia."

"I learn Vulcan, then," the boy said decidedly.

Again, there was a brief flicker of amusement in Sarin's eyes before he answered sternly: "No. You will learn how to speak Kareedian. It is what your master expects you to speak, and he will not allow any alien tongues. I am allowed to speak _MoH'kwan_ with you, but that will stop as soon as you have learned enough Kareedian to follow my orders. And you will learn quickly, _pa'sahn_? Understood?"

"Yes," the boy said, and at the look on the Vulcan's face quickly added: "_Pa'sahn_."

"_Pa'sahnri, kan_. I understand, sir."

"_Pa'sahnri, kan_," the boy repeated, stumbling over the alien words. The Vulcan, however, seemed satisfied.

"Good." He gathered up the plate and glass and got up again. "_Rech'vi_, Sev. Come with me."

The boy hesitated a second before venturing out of the hatch, frightened by the unfamiliar smells and sounds. The grass under his bare feet was of a strange, light blue shade, so very different from what he was used to. He raised his head, and his eyes widened at the sight of the evening sky - a pale pink mixed with dark green streaks. Most of his surroundings had an unfamiliar shape or hue, reminding him that he was indeed on a different world than the one he had grown up on. Even the buildings surrounding the yard struck him as alien; none of them looked anything like Ma'Khor's palace with its ornamented columns and decorative statuettes.

"Over there are the stables," Sarin said, and repeated the word in Kareedian. "It will be your duty to help me care for the animals and keep the place clean. Have you ever looked after an animal before?"

The boy considered. One of Ma'Khor's servants had kept a large, furry creature, and on sunny days it sometimes lay on the porch and enjoyed the warmth. One day, the boy had sneaked up to it and carefully touched its fur to see if it was as soft as it looked. The creature had raised its head and looked at him with gentle brown eyes, stirring emotions within the boy's soul which he had buried under a layer of hate years ago. He had stayed out there even though he wasn't allowed to, petting the silky fur and almost smiling when the animal gave a deep, contented rumble. Soon enough, someone had discovered him and chased him back inside, but the boy had never forgotten the animal's soft brown eyes.

"No," he said quietly. "But I want to learn."

The boy never realized how much his demeanor had changed in the short time since Ja'Lin had opened the flitter's hatch. Sarin regarded him thoughtfully, this dirty, ragged boy that acted as if he had been treated like an animal himself for most of his life. Maybe looking after him wasn't going to be as difficult as Sarin had initially assumed.

They went over to the stables, and the boy stared in awe as he saw the large, horned beasts that began to paw on the wooden floor when the door was opened. Once inside, Sarin proceeded to a singled-out stall near the door and motioned for his new assistant to come closer. At first, the boy stood frozen, afraid of the shaggy, purple-colored being behind the wooden bars. When Sarin motioned again, however, he carefully approached the stall.

"These are _ghurat_," the Vulcan explained. "The Kareedians keep them for their meat and furs. They are _menach_, which means that they only eat plants. This one," he pointed at the animal in the stall, "needs special feeding, so I keep it in the detached stall. We need to feed it by hand, since it is cut off from the electronic feeding mechanism that fills the rest of the troughs."

He showed the boy how to refill the animal's feeding bowl. Pouring the gravel-like feed into the chute, the boy noticed that the animal's sides bulged under its purple fur.

"She have baby?" he asked, pointing at the _ghurat_'s swollen belly. Sarin raised an eyebrow.

"Indeed. How did you know?"

The boy didn't answer. The image of another animal came to him, a large, golden... dog. The boy was sure that this was the right word, even though he had no idea where that knowledge would come from. The dog's belly was slightly bulging as well, and the boy remembered a woman _(...Mommy?...)_ talking to him and another boy, saying that Lady was going to have babies at the end of summer.

He blinked, shaking off the reverie. He hadn't thought of that place and its people for years, and had a feeling that it wouldn't be a good idea to start now.

When they had finished feeding the pregnant _ghurat_, Sarin walked over to a steep ladder that led to a square opening in the wooden ceiling.

"Up there is the hayloft," he said. "That is where you are going to sleep. I suggest you go to bed now. I will show you around the farm tomorrow. Try to get enough sleep, we have a lot of work to do."

The boy stared up at the black square that seemed to swallow the end of the ladder, and felt a familiar panic rise in his throat. For as long as he could think, he had been mortally afraid of the dark.

"I sleep down here, yes?" he asked, his voice trembling ever so slightly. "Sleep on the floor."

"No, certainly not," the Vulcan said sternly. "You will do what you are told. Now get up there."

Fear formed a heavy knot in his chest, and the boy had trouble speaking. "Please," he said, almost stumbling on the unfamiliar word. "Please, I sleep down here. Please."

He expected Sarin to hit him, but the Vulcan only regarded him for a long moment. "There is an old electric lamp installed in the hayloft," he said. "You can turn it on by pressing the switch on the wall next to the ladder."

There was no reason why the Vulcan shouldn't be telling the truth. Reluctantly, the boy began to climb the ladder, swallowing hard as he approached the black opening. Once he had reached the top, he fumbled for the switch on the wall, and a second later the large room was lit by a dim yellow light. The boy took a hesitant step forward, and jumped when something behind him moved. Scraping over the edge of the hatch, the ladder disappeared from his field of vision. He scrambled back to the opening just in time to see the Vulcan place the ladder on the floor in front of the stalls.

"I am not going to take any chances," Sarin said calmly, meeting the boy's eyes. "Ja'Lin will hold me responsible if you try to run away."

"I not run away," the boy said. The idea had crossed his mind, but where would he go?

"Maybe not," Sarin agreed. "But I cannot be sure." He disappeared into the back of the stable and returned with a gray bundle in his hands. "Here."

He threw the bundle to the boy who caught it clumsily. It was a thin gray blanket.

"Sleep now. I will come to get you in the morning."

With these words, the Vulcan turned around and left. The boy stood next to the hatch for a few seconds, pressing the gray blanket against his chest. The hayloft was huge, and the weak electric light lit only a small part of it. In the back of the room, the boy could see bales of hay stacked on top of each other, some of them all but touching the ceiling. Darkness lurked in between those stacks, and he quickly looked away again.

A few meters away from the hatch was a large pile of hay. The boy decided to use it for a bed, and for a few minutes forgot about his fear as he dug a hole wide enough for him to crawl into. Once inside, he wrapped himself into his blanket as tightly as he could. The hay was warm, and softer than the floor he had slept on back at Ma'Khor's place. It was as if he had built himself a cocoon, a hiding place of his very own. The boy closed his eyes, listening to the muffled noises of the animals below, and after a while he drifted off to sleep.

That night, for the first time in almost three years, the boy dreamt of a hot day in August, of himself and his brother playing soccer on the front yard, and of his mother screaming as she fought the _MoH'kwan_ raiders. And he cried in his sleep so that his face was still wet when Sarin came to wake him in the morning.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	11. Chapter 10

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for leaving a review!

Rinne (thank you!), Tata (I hope I'm in time and you'll still be able to read the new chapter before you leave... have a good trip!), RoaringMice (thank you... yes, I guess pushing those things aside is what a young child would do), stage manager (thank you!), Salhawke (I've read the two stories you mentioned - they're brilliant! - and they left me wondering how it would work "the other way around". Glad you're enjoying it, please keep telling me what you think!), JennMel (yes, she's alive, and she'll still play a part in the story), Luna (wow, thank you! please keep reviewing!), Jane C (thanks, keep telling me what you think!),Virgo (Don't worry about it, and thanks for putting the story on alert!), Exploded Pen (thank you! yeah, Trip and Mal are more alike than they know), Maraschino (the background story will be continued, although there might be some... unexpected circumstances coming up soon... (Don't worry, no one's going to get pregnant ;-) ), The Libran Iniquity (Kompromiss hört sich gut an ... and I guess being an engineer is in Trip's genes, in a way ;-) )

Please keep the feedback coming!

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Chapter 10

As a teenager at the Vulcan boarding school, Malcolm had sometimes played a game called _kal-toh_ with his Vulcan friend, Selek. He had needed all his concentration and logical thinking to master even the beginner level, sometimes staring for minutes at the uneven form of crystal sticks before deciding on his next move. Selek, of course, excelled at the game as he excelled at everything else, and never needed more than thirty seconds to adapt to whatever strategy Malcolm came up with. Still, he had never shown any sign of impatience as he waited for his human friend to make his move. And, what was even more important - he had never let him win on purpose. Then, after almost two hundred games which Malcolm had lost (most of them after only a few moves on his part), he had won a game. Suddenly, unexpectedly, the crystals had changed their shape and turned into a symmetric object while a soft chime announced his victory. Malcolm had raised his eyes, too nonplussed to feel anything but surprise at the fact that he had finally managed to out-logic the genius.

And Selek had smiled. It was one of the few times that Malcolm saw the other boy actually smile, giving up his usual Vulcan reserve and letting his pleasure show on his face. The reason for this pleasure, however, had been a mystery to young Malcolm. His victory meant that Selek, a Vulcan, had been beaten by a human at a game that was based exclusively upon logic. Malcolm himself had never felt frustrated at the fact that he always lost. It was a part of the game, a law of nature; he could not win this game playing against Selek. It wasn't _logical_ that he would win. His ambition had become to lose in as many moves as possible. And yet he _had_ won, and Selek had smiled. Fourteen-year-old Malcolm had smiled back, carefully, uncertain how to react, and they had rearranged the _kal-toh_ sticks for another round. Which Malcolm lost, of course. He had never won another game (at least not when playing with Selek), but even as a boy Malcolm had felt - in a vague, bewildered way - that his single victory had pleased Selek more than the countless times when he had wiped the _kal-toh_ board with Malcolm, so to speak.

Now, seventeen years later, Malcolm watched Trip and his children do their schoolwork, and smiled. In the meantime there could be no doubt about the fact that Sara was Hoshi's best student; after only six weeks, the girl was able to read simple texts in English and produce handwritten versions of exercises which she had memorized after reading them only three or four times. Her letters, of course, still looked like large, spiky insects crawling across the page, but they were legible and Hoshi was more than impressed. "She's gifted," the communications officer had told Malcolm a week after the lessons had started. "I don't think it'll take her more than one or two years to catch up with her peers at school. Maybe even less than that."

Currently, Sara was checking her father's "homework" for mistakes, and the smile on Trip's face as he watched his daughter reminded Malcolm very much of Selek's smile when Malcolm had won the _kal-toh_ game. Seventeen years later, Malcolm understood what that smile was about: pride. Trip was proud of Sara in the same way Selek had been proud of his human friend, and the fact that his daughter was doing better than her father didn't bother him in the slightest.

The girl raised her head. "No mistakes, Daddy," she said in English. Malcolm noticed that her accent had improved a lot over the last weeks. "You gets an A."

Hoshi had told them about the grading system at English schools back on Earth, and the children (Sammy in particular) had joyfully adopted the idea, demanding a big red A on every sheet they finished. Sammy sometimes spared Hoshi the trouble by drawing them himself, covering every free space on his work sheets with large, spidery A's.

"You get an A," Trip automatically corrected his daughter as she handed him back the padd. "Thank you, honey."

Sara smiled, and bent back down over her book. Trip threw a glance at Sammy's work.

"How are the lines coming, partner?"

Sammy held up his sheet for his father and Malcolm to see. "Done," he announced proudly. And he was, although the last two lines of letters resembled a row of caved-in houses more than anything else. "You give me an A, yes?"

"Sure," Trip agreed. "And maybe if you write the last couple of lines again on the back of the sheet I'll give you two A's."

Sammy considered this, then nodded. "Okay." Turning the sheet around, the little boy began to write again, the tip of his tongue protruding slightly with concentration as he carefully drew the letters.

Malcolm smiled and returned his attention to his own padd. He had come by Trip's quarters after his shift, finding the family busy with their work, but when he had offered to come back later Trip had asked him to stay. Since that first time in front of the guest quarters, Trip no longer hesitated to address Malcolm as an equal, and so the request came naturally enough. Thinking back to the time when the other man had insisted on calling him "sir", Malcolm was amazed at how much had changed between them in a relatively short time. It wasn't only the fact that Trip had remembered his real name or grown accustomed to the idea of being a free man, although these things had changed him a lot. What surprised Malcolm, however, was the realization that Trip actually depended on him, on his friendship. That was new. Selek, for instance, had been what humans called a star pupil, admired by his fellow students for his exceptional logic and genius. Malcolm had sometimes wondered why a person like Selek would want to befriend him, a shy skinny outsider whom even the few other humans avoided. He had never asked him, and Selek had never given Malcolm the impression that he was bestowing an honor on him by being his friend. But he was, Malcolm had been only too aware of that fact. He was not the kind of person most people wanted as a buddy, and certainly not as a best friend. The perfect target for practical jokes, maybe (as his years at the foster house had taught him), or the kind of guy you asked if you needed to copy his notes, but not someone most humans wanted to hang out with.

Except for Trip. Malcolm had been surprised when Trip had thanked him for "being friends" with him, and even more surprised when he had agreed to tell him about his past, memories that were visibly painful for him to relive. Trip didn't seem to mind when Malcolm only listened, not expecting any elaborate words of comfort, or compassion from the lieutenant. All he wanted, it seemed, was to tell Malcolm because Malcolm was his friend. This unquestioning acceptance by another human was a new experience to Malcolm, who had begun to see himself as most people perceived him - quiet to the point of reticence, lacking social skills, uptight. He was used to being judged on these characteristics, and had even learned to laugh at his own "stuffiness" when he joked with Hoshi. But with Trip that wasn't necessary, for Trip didn't seem to care that Malcolm was the typical anal-retentive Brit - Malcolm doubted that either of those two terms would mean anything to Trip.

"Mu'ai, va kir'a?"

Sammy's voice broke through his thoughts. The boy was talking rapid-fire Kareedian, and since Trip had switched off the UT (Only English During Lessons being his and Hoshi's new motto) Malcolm only heard the words without understanding them.

"Pen'ri komaj si ma'ahn Sara-"

"Try and say it in English, partner." Trip smiled at the boy.

Sammy sighed, giving his father his patented puppy-dog look. "_Ni'a'ri kar_?"

"Try."

"I ask we can go eat when-" He waved a hand at his sister's paper work, and she finished for him: "When I am done?"

"Yes, right." The little boy patted his stomach. "Hungry."

Both adults laughed, and Malcolm said: "You know, actually I was going to ask you the same thing." He looked at Trip. "There's something I'd like to talk to you about."

He smiled to let him know that everything was okay, and found himself looking forward to breaking the good news to Trip. Malcolm knew how worried his friend was about their upcoming return to Earth.

On their way to the mess hall Sara and Sammy told Malcolm all about their lessons and how Jonathan Archer had taken them to the gym to play basketball, in a mixture of Kareedian and broken English that left Malcolm's head swirling. Trip glanced at him from time to time, but with Sammy talking a mile a minute there was no chance for Malcolm to interrupt.

A few minutes later, they were seated at a table next to the window. As usual in the late afternoon, the mess was crowded, and several crewmembers smiled at the children when they passed their table. Sammy and Sara had collected a large portion of French fries each and their favorite food silenced them effectively, leaving Malcolm to wonder if taste was universal among children.

"You were going to tell me something?" Trip asked, snatching Sammy's hand just in time as he tried to steal one of his sister's fries. "Mind your own food, Sammy."

Malcolm smiled. "I called Commander M'Benga last night. He's an old teacher of mine back at the Starfleet Academy. Engineering department. He was more than impressed when I told him that you've been doing maintenance repairs even though you're not acquainted with Starfleet technology. He's interested in a talent like yours."

Trip stared. "Are you saying..."

Malcolm's smile broadened at the utter amazement in his tone. "He's willing to arrange for your training as an assistant engineer as soon as we get back to Earth."

"But..." Trip hesitated. "Does he realize that I've never, well, gone to school?"

"I told him that," Malcolm replied. "He said you'd need basic reading skills before you can start your training, and that you'll have to attend evening classes to catch up on your education. But he's willing to make an exception where the entrance exams are concerned. He said, and I quote: I won't turn away an engineering genius just because he's never been lucky enough to see a school from the inside."

Trip still stared at him, a forgotten fork of pasta hovering halfway up to his mouth. His expression hadn't really changed, but Malcolm saw that his eyes were brighter than usual.

"You don't know what this means to me," Trip said quietly, and lowered the fork. "I... I was afraid..."

"I know," Malcolm said. "But M'Benga is a good man. There's no stopping him when he realizes that someone's got talent."

"You think I do?" The question came hesitantly, as if Trip wanted to believe it but found it too good to be true. "You think I'm that good?"

"More than that," Malcolm said. "I think the Joint Forces are going to regret that they didn't recruit you first."

Trip smiled, but he immediately grew serious again. "Malcolm, I... don't know what to say. This... this is more than I ever dared to hope for."

Malcolm felt slightly embarrassed at the gratitude he saw in the other man's eyes. "Well, I'm sure you're going to do a great job."

Trip looked as if he wanted to add something - probably express his thanks - and Malcolm was rather glad when Sara interrupted.

"Daddy, does this mean you're going to work as an engineer?" she asked, now back to Kareedian again.

"I think so," Trip said, hesitantly, as if he still couldn't quite believe it. "There're a lot of things that I'll have to learn, but maybe, one day I will."

Sara smiled. She seemed to understand at least partly what this meant to her father. Sammy had just opened his mouth, probably to announce that he was going to be an engineer as well (after Commander Archer's "tour", Sammy had changed his mind about becoming a pilot and was now aiming for an engineering career) when they were interrupted again.

"T'Pol to Lieutenant Reed."

"Excuse me." Malcolm got up and went over to the intercom. "Reed here."

"Lieutenant Reed, I need you and Mr. Tucker to come to my ready room. There is something we need to discuss."

It was all she said, but Malcolm recognized her tone. The Vulcan Captain only used that ultra-calm voice where urgent - and sometimes unpleasant - matters were concerned.

"Aye, ma'am. We'll be right there."

He returned to the table. Trip who had been listening to their brief conversation had already abandoned his meal and gotten up.

"Will they be alright on their own?" Malcolm asked with a glance at the two children.

"They'll be fine." Trip briefly ruffled their hair, then looked at Sara. "You can go back to our quarters when you're done. Just don't forget to put away your dishes, okay?"

_"Pa'sahn'ri,"_ Sara said, and for once her father didn't insist on the English version.

Leaving the children to their meal, Malcolm and Trip left the mess and headed for the bridge. More than anything else, Malcolm was surprised by the fact that T'Pol wanted to see Trip as well. So it couldn't be a tactical problem.

_It doesn't necessarily have to be bad news, _he told himself._ Maybe M'Benga called again and couldn't reach me via the private channels._ Or maybe... No, that couldn't be. There was no way any of Trip's family could have found out, not when the news about the first recovered Lost One had been sent as classified information.

He threw Trip a side-glance and wondered how he would react, face to face with a parent or sibling he hadn't seen since he was four.

Don't be ridiculous. There's no way they could have found out.

Still, Malcolm breathed an inward sigh of relief when, on entering the room, he saw that the monitor on T'Pol's desk was blank.

"Gentlemen," the Captain said. "Please, take a seat."

T'Pol's features were unreadable, but Malcolm could tell from her demeanor that this wasn't about a call from Commander M'Benga. Or even about a personal call from Florida.

They sat down in the two chairs that faced the Captain's desk, Trip following Malcolm's example after a brief moment of hesitation. Malcolm knew that if it hadn't been for him, Trip would have remained standing in the Captain's presence.

As usual, T'Pol began without preamble. "I received a call from Admiral Singer of Joint Forces Command half an hour ago," she said. "There has been a... development."

Malcolm frowned at the slight hesitation. T'Pol wasn't one to let her concern show, but this time she did seem... worried.

"A development, ma'am?"

"Indeed." T'Pol folded her hands on the desk. "The Admiral's call was about your recent mission, Lieutenant."

That brought a twinge of unease. It wasn't the first time that T'Pol received an unexpected call about his mission, mostly from JF Command staff who were not officially involved in any part of the operation - as far as Malcolm knew, anyway. It wasn't as if anyone had ever really told him what exactly he was doing on Kareedia. Admiral Selin's orders had been precise and to the point, telling him what was expected of him and not divulging any more information than necessary. Still, Malcolm had a distinct feeling that there was more to it than the Admiral - or anyone else - let on.

"Is there a problem, Captain?" he asked, careful to keep his phrasing neutral. He noticed Trip watching him out of the corner of his eye.

Again, T'Pol hesitated before speaking - which was not at all typical of her. "Actually, I believe there is. Admiral Singer informed me that in the light of your recent mission the Joint Forces have decided to reinstate Paragraph 34-A."

Malcolm sat motionless for a few seconds, unable to actually believe what he had just heard. It was as if T'Pol had told him their new mission was to bomb the Vulcan capital back to stone age. No matter whether Vulcans were given to joking or not, she couldn't be serious about this.

"Paragraph 34-A?" Trip asked, his eyes wandering from Malcolm to T'Pol. "What does that mean?"

T'Pol's face was a portrait in calm as she answered. "When the Joint Forces had only just been founded, Earth still had to deal with frequent attacks by the Orion raiders. There was a planet-wide state of emergency, and the Command staff had to operate under rather difficult conditions. To make sure that no essential military information was passed on to unauthorized personnel, they added a new paragraph to their regulations which allowed high-ranking officers to use... memory-altering drugs on the bearers of such information, if they deemed it necessary."

"It's brain-washing," Malcolm said, surprised at how easy it was to talk when your throat felt like a sheet of sandpaper. "Those drugs will wipe out your mind, every single coherent memory that you have. I think they've been applied in two or three cases, and every time the victim ended up in a state of catatonia."

"There was a public outcry when the media reported about it," T'Pol continued, not contradicting what Malcolm had said. "Command had to remove the paragraph from their regulations when the public pressure became too strong. It is seldom mentioned nowadays. As Humans would say, it is not one of the most glorious moments in the Joint Forces' history."

Trip's face had gone pale as they talked. "And they ordered you to give Malcolm those drugs?"

"No," T'Pol said. "Admiral Singer said I was to keep Lieutenant Reed in the brig until our return to Earth, and then hand him over to Joint Forces security. He wants the procedure performed at Joint Forces Headquarters where it can be supervised."

Malcolm felt a strange calm settle on him, as if they were discussing a hypothetical scenario. What T'Pol said sounded - unreal. Impossible. "Why... why would they want to do such a thing?"

The Vulcan's gaze came to rest on him again. "I do not know, Lieutenant. I assume that the order has not been authorized by the entire Command staff, and certainly not by Starfleet Headquarters. But Admiral Singer is a man of great influence. If he told his subordinates to keep the decision classified, then I have no doubt that his orders would be followed."

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't understand. Why would the information I gathered on Senator V'Lin be that dangerous to anyone?"

"As I said, I do not know. I have tried to contact Admiral Selin about it, but I was not able to reach him. Admiral Singer assured me that Selin approved of the decision, but I am not certain whether he can be believed."

"I can't imagine Selin would approve of any such thing!" Malcolm said, a pang of anger breaking through his shock. "He was against Paragraph 34-A right from the start when they introduced it for the first time. He wouldn't-"

"I agree, Lieutenant," T'Pol said quietly. "But there is no use in speculating. The Admiral's orders are clear, and as far as I am informed there has been no statement from Admiral Selin yet."

Malcolm stared at her, trying to make sense of what she was telling him. Someone - not necessarily Singer himself - was trying to get rid of him, that much was clear. Reinstating Paragraph 34-A was a fairly desperate measure, and not without risk, especially when the media got hold of that particular piece of news. But why they would do so in the first place was beyond him. It hadn't been Malcolm's first mission on behalf of the Joint Forces, and neither had it been the first time he had been ordered to gather information on a hostile species. The Kareedians' dealings with the Orions were a dirty business he wanted to be no part of, but he couldn't see why the information would hold that much of a threat to anyone in JF Command. Malcolm gripped the edges of his chair, hard. If they wanted him because he knew too much, then...

"Captain, did Singer say anything about Trip?"

"He did." T'Pol paused briefly. "The Admiral has ordered me to lock Mr. Tucker into the brig as well, or confine him to his quarters. He is not to speak to any of the crew until we return to Earth."

"And then?" Malcolm had a hard time keeping the fury out of his voice. "Are they going to brainwash him as well?"

"No. According to Admiral Singer, Command has decided to have him committed to a Joint Forces detention center as soon as we reach Earth."

Trip spoke up again, swallowing hard before he asked: "What about my children? Are they going to be locked up as well?"

T'Pol looked back at him. "The Admiral gave me no explicit orders on that subject, but I believe he expects me to turn them over to another Joint Forces institution where they will be taken care of."

"No." Malcolm saw the muscles in Trip's jaw work. "They can't take them away. You said that on Earth all people are equal and can decide for themselves. How can they do this to you or take my children away from me when your laws don't allow it?"

Neither T'Pol nor Malcolm had an answer to that. In the silence that followed, Malcolm could almost hear his own thoughts going in circles; he couldn't understand what had led to Command's decision to have him and Trip put away, and could think of no way to escape their fate. Enterprise was on her way home, and the Joint Forces were going to make sure that he wasn't going to escape and go into hiding once they had reached Earth. And until then...

"So... when do I report to the brig?" he asked, carefully keeping any accusation out of his tone. This was not T'Pol's fault. "Now?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "I cannot remember that I gave you orders to do so at all, Lieutenant."

Malcolm stared at her. "Ma'am?"

Her eyebrow climbed higher. "I expected better of your reasoning, Lieutenant. It is illogical to assume that I am going to follow Admiral Singer's orders."

"Captain..."

"I will not turn over a member of my crew to be physically harmed by anyone, no matter what reason. Even if Joint Forces Command _have_ reinstated paragraph 34-A - and I see no possible circumstances that would justify such an act - I am your superior officer and so the decision lies with me. As to sending Mr. Tucker to a detention center, there is no legal reason to do so since he has not committed any criminal offense."

Malcolm shook his head. "Captain, I appreciate your support, but I don't think there's anything you can do. Singer's got half of the Command staff in the palm of his hand. I don't want you to get in trouble because of insubordination."

Trip nodded his assent, but T'Pol only let her other eyebrow follow the first one, not visibly impressed by the prospect of facing court martial.

"I realize that I cannot keep you from the authorities once we have reached Earth. At the same time, however, I cannot guarantee for the absolute reliability of my safety measures, either."

Malcolm paused. "You mean..."

"I am saying that there is the definite possibility that you will find out about the Admiral's orders and take a shuttle into space before I have the chance to put you under arrest."

"You're willing to stage our escape?" Malcolm could hardly believe he was having this conversation with Captain "By-the-Book" T'Pol, who had once demoted two members of her crew after she'd overheard them spreading gossip about a superior officer. And here she was, defying priority orders by one of Command's highest-ranking officers.

T'Pol didn't seem to find anything unusual about it, however. "I intend to investigate this matter further, Lieutenant, but I need time. It will be only one and a half Terran months until we have reached Earth. I suggest you leave for the next inhabited planet that will grant you asylum - Denobula is only three and a half weeks from here at full impulse, and they grant unlimited asylum to all victims of political persecution. I believe you fit that description."

"But how will you explain to Admiral Singer that we're gone?" Malcolm asked.

Her eyebrow twitched ever so slightly. "I will tell him what I told you. You escaped before I had the chance to order you to the brig."

Malcolm knew that it wasn't going to be as easy as she made it sound. T'Pol would have to fake a lot of security protocols if she wanted the Command staff to find no evidence that they could use against her.

He cleared his throat. "Captain, I... I appreciate what you're doing. You're risking your career, and..."

"...and I'm only doing what I deem the logical thing to do, Lieutenant," T'Pol finished for him. "There is no need to mention it again."

Malcolm knew better than to contradict. "When you say you're going to investigate..."

"I am going to try and find out more about the background of your mission. Admiral Singer's interest in keeping your findings secret doesn't seem to be strictly related to the mission. I believe there is something else going on. I suggest you install a tracking device in the shuttle so that I can locate and contact you, if necessary."

Malcolm nodded. The fact that he was going to leave Enterprise - run away, actually - still seemed unreal to him, but he knew that he didn't have much time left to get used to the idea. Like the Captain had pointed out, from now on he was a fugitive, running away from the law. _Whose_ law he was running from was another matter, of course. But if they were going to get away, they needed to do so soon. Maybe even - and Malcolm startled at the thought - maybe even as soon as tonight.

In the meantime, T'Pol had turned back to Trip. "You realize, Mr. Tucker, that you will not be able to take your children along."

Trip nodded and his voice sounded steady as he answered, belying his pale face. "I do. I wouldn't want to put them in danger by taking them along. But... He hesitated. "Captain, do you think any of those people are going to try and... hurt them if you take them back to Earth?"

"No," T'Pol said at once. "I do not understand why Command has decided to reintroduce Paragraph 34-A, but I can assure you that your children will not be harmed. Most likely, Command will not be interested in them at all."

Trip nodded, but his expression was still one of worry. "I don't want them to be locked up in some sort of jail."

"They won't be," Malcolm said. "I know it doesn't sound all that credible at the moment, but that kind of thing is not allowed back on Earth. There are very strict laws where the treatment of children is concerned."

"I will personally see to it that your children are well taken care of," T'Pol said when Trip still didn't look convinced. "At the Vulcan embassy, there are suitable accommodations and teachers who will look after them and help them with their schoolwork."

"Thank you, Captain, but..." Trip paused, seeming to consider something. "I don't think that will be necessary," he finished then, softly.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked.

The man met his eyes. "I'm hoping that... that my family will take them in."

Malcolm stared at him, and saw his own thoughts of before mirrored on Trip's face: There wasn't any time left to get used to the idea. If Trip needed to contact his family back on Earth, then he had to do so today. And if he needed their help, then he had to ask for it now.

There didn't seem anything left to add, and Malcolm got up.

"Captain..."

"Dismissed, Lieutenant," T'Pol said. "I suggest you take a few hours to prepare for your departure. It goes without saying that I want as few crewmembers as possible involved in the matter."

So it was tonight, after all. "Of course, Captain. And..." Malcolm knew what her answer was going to be, but he still needed to say it. "Thank you."

But for once, T'Pol didn't quote any Vulcan philosophers at him. For a moment, her gaze rested on both of them, and the expression in her eyes came close to regret. "Good luck, Lieutenant... Mr. Tucker."

On their way out, Malcolm threw a side-glance at Trip and wasn't surprised at what he saw on his friend's face.

"Do you want me to be there when you call them?" he asked.

Trip gave him a grateful look. "If you don't mind..."

"I don't."

Neither of them said anything on their way back to Trip's quarters. The strange calm, that feeling of surrealism Malcolm had experienced before, was slowly giving way to the shock his mind had been trying to keep at bay. Only a few hours and they would be gone, heading into space in a shuttle with practically no means of protecting themselves. _On the run._

Shaking off the thought, Malcolm began to put together a mental list of the things that needed to be done. At the moment, he needed cool, tactical thinking more than he had in a long time.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	12. Chapter 11

Chapter 11

Back in Trip's quarters, they found a note on the bed, a few lines painstakingly drawn with a pencil: "We Go WiTh HoShI. See Yu Latr! SaRa"

It was obvious that the children had been in a great hurry to get going; Sara's books and papers lay scattered on the table, and Sammy had never even bothered to put on his shoes (or had discarded them on the way to the door).

"Hoshi promised to show them her favorite movie when her shift was over," Trip explained, gathering up his children's belongings. "They've been looking forward to it all day."

Malcolm nodded. He had noticed that Trip was taking more time than necessary straightening things up, not meeting his eyes as he carefully put the things back to where they belonged. He seemed unsure of what to do next, afraid, even. Malcolm wasn't surprised. Calling your family that you hadn't seen for thirty years was difficult enough, but calling them under these circumstances seemed like the hardest thing he could think of. Even more so since there was no time for... for anything.

"You know... Hoshi found out their call code a few weeks ago," he said quietly. He noticed Trip's back stiffen ever so slightly. "You can get it from the database."

A brief silence followed, then Trip turned around, still holding one of Sammy's shoes in his hand. His face was devoid of all emotions.

"I..." He lowered his eyes. "I don't know what I am going to say. I can't just..."

He trailed off, but Malcolm inwardly finished the sentence for him. _I can't just call them and say "Hi, folks, remember the guy with the funny nickname who was kidnapped by the Orions about, oh, thirty years ago? Right, that's me. Oh, and by the way, would you take in my kids while I go gallivanting across the galaxy running away from Singer's mad henchmen? Great, thanks!"_

"Maybe..." Malcolm hesitated. Truth was, he had no idea what he was going to say. "Maybe you just have to wait and see what they say. This is going to come as a shock to them, too." _To put it mildly._

Trip turned the shoe over in his hands, never raising his eyes. "And if they don't want to talk to me?"

The possibility had occurred to Malcolm as well; he had no idea how Trip's family was going to react to the shock of finding themselves face to face with a stranger who claimed to be their son. Maybe cutting the comm link was the only way they would be able to cope. But then he remembered what Trip had told him about his mother fighting the Raiders, a single woman taking on a bunch of Orion warriors to save her child.

"They'll talk to you," he said. "I'm sure they will."

Finally, Trip met his eyes. He didn't ask how Malcolm could be so sure, only regarded him for a long moment. Then he nodded.

"Okay."

__

He trusts me

. The thought came to Malcolm as a startled realization.

_Trusts me, just like that._

He watched Trip as he sat down in front of the monitor and switched on the screen, feeling strangely helpless_. I'm just as clueless as you are. Why listen to me, of all people?_

Trip, of course, gave no answer to Malcolm's mute question. Perched stiffly on his chair, he watched the Starfleet logo appear on the screen, then opened a link to the ship's database.

While Trip's reading skills had improved a lot over the last weeks, finding his way through a complex computer system was still difficult for him, and Malcolm was glad to help out. It gave him the feeling that there was at least _something _he could do.

He entered the code into the comm system, then turned back to Trip and pointed out a key on the monitor's frame.

"If you hit that button, your call will be connected."

For a moment, Trip only stared at the blinking row of numbers on the screen in front of him. Malcolm saw his hand tremble as he pressed the call button. A second later, the code disappeared to be replaced by another Starfleet/Joint Forces logo and the words "Your call is being connected".

__

Do they have to put that bloody thing everywhere

, Malcolm thought, staring at the Joint Forces symbol as if it were responsible for everything that had happened in the last half hour. Then the screen changed again, and Malcolm didn't even have time to shake his head at his own weird train of thoughts.

For a brief second, the display went blank (it always did before long-distance connections, a minor malfunction that used to drive Hoshi crazy), then the face of a woman appeared on the screen. _Around sixty_, Malcolm thought as he watched from his place outside the monitor's visual range. Her eyes, however, seemed younger than that.

The woman's gray-streaked blonde hair was tied back, and her nose resembled Trip's in its slightly upswept shape. The family likeness was there, though not strikingly so; Mrs. Tucker's eyes were green rather than blue, and Malcolm noticed a sprinkle of freckles across the bridge of her nose.

"Yes?" she asked, not in an unfriendly way. There was no recognition in her eyes, only slight surprise when her gaze dropped to check the call code at the bottom of her computer screen. "Can I help you...?"

She was obviously waiting for her caller to identify himself, but Trip did nothing of the sort. For a few seconds, he remained silent, and Mrs. Tucker had already opened her mouth again when he finally spoke up.

"You..." He cleared his throat. "You must be Susan Tucker." He said the name carefully, almost like a question.

The woman on the screen nodded, bewildered. "And you are...?"

Again, Trip hesitated. When he answered, however, his voice sounded quite steady. "I'm Charles Tucker III."

For a long moment, Susan Tucker did not move at all. She stared at Trip and Trip stared back, neither of them speaking or turning their eyes away. The silence was so loud that it sounded like a scream in Malcolm's ears.

Finally, the woman did speak, in a hoarse, unsteady voice. "If this is some sort of cruel joke..."

Trip only shook his head. Susan's eyes dropped back to the call code that was displayed on the bottom of the screen, and Malcolm could almost watch as the implication hit her - a Starfleet code. A long-distance call from a starship that was light-years away from Earth.

Her face went gray, and for a moment Malcolm thought she was going to pass out. She grabbed the table in front of her, hard, as if she needed to steady herself, but her eyes never left the screen even for one second.

"Are you... are you okay?" Trip asked, and to Malcolm's surprise the woman let out a laugh, a dry sound that spoke more of shock than of anything else.

"I... I guess I am," she said, the tremble in her tone belying her words. "So... you... " Her voice failed and the last word was hardly audible. "Trip?"

Trip nodded. Susan's hand went up to her mouth and clenched into a fist, as if she wanted to hold a scream inside. Her face was white. Malcolm got the impression that she _had_ passed out, if only for a second and without ever bothering to fall over. Then the glazed-over look faded and her eyes became clear again, filling with moisture. Malcolm doubted that Susan even realized she was crying. Her hand came down limply, then curled around the edge of the table again.

"Trip..." She swallowed. "I... are you alright?"

Tears were running down her cheeks but she ignored them, shaking her head and letting out another laugh that didn't sound like a laugh at all. "I'm... I'm sorry, that's a stupid thing to ask you... but... oh, God, I'm so sorry, seems I jus' don't know what to say..."

"I'm alright," Trip said quietly. Malcolm couldn't see his face from where he was sitting, but he heard the crack in the other man's voice. "It's not a stupid thing to ask."

Susan nodded, pressing the back of her hand against her mouth. She took several deep breaths which sounded more like sobs, fighting to regain her control. Finally, she lowered her hand again.

"Will... will you excuse me for a moment?" she managed. "I'd like to get your father."

Trip nodded again and Susan reached out to touch the screen, an involuntary gesture by which she seemed to be assuring herself that the image was real, not only a figment of her imagination. Then she was gone. Trip stared at the monitor for another few seconds, though Malcolm doubted he was really seeing the living room with the old armchairs and couches, or any of the other things on the screen. His shoulders were slumped, and he covered his eyes with one hand, remaining in that position for a while. Malcolm hesitated. His first thought had been walking over there, maybe laying a hand on his friend's shoulder, but then decided that it might be better to leave him alone for the moment. This was something Trip needed to do on his own, and private emotions that he needed to deal with in... well, in private.

When Trip raised his head again, the trembling of his shoulders had stopped. He never turned around to look at Malcolm, and straightened his posture when Susan reappeared on the screen.

The man next to her was about her age, although his hair was entirely gray. Looking at Charles Tucker II, Malcolm thought he was seeing Trip like he was going to look thirty years from now - the likeness between father and son was unmistakable.

Trip's father froze just like Susan had when his eyes first fell on the monitor. For several seconds, he said nothing at all, only staring at what must seem like an apparition to him.

"I..." Trip trailed off, and the man on the screen was startled out of his trance.

"Trip?" His voice was no more than a whisper. "But... how... "

Like Susan, Charles Tucker took no notice of the tears that filled his eyes. He didn't even try to wipe them off, never taking his eyes off the screen.

"Where are you, Trip?"

"I'm on the Enterprise," Trip said. "A Starfleet ship."

Susan smiled through her tears. "Look at us," she said with a shaky laugh, and this time it seemed real, not just a reaction to the shock. "Bawlin' like babies, all three of us."

Trip's father laughed. He was crying at the same time, but it sounded genuine enough. "Trip, I... I don't know what to say, it's jus' so... are they takin' you home, son? Back to Earth?"

Trip hesitated. "Not yet," he said then. "But it's... it's good to see you."

Susan laid a hand on the screen's frame, as if she wished she could reach through it and touch her son. "We never stopped thinkin' of you, Trip."

Charles nodded. "You don't know what it feels like, seein' you again after all those years..."

"I think I do," Trip said quietly.

"And I can't even give you a hug!" Susan smiled, wiping her cheeks with her sleeve. "Tell those Starfleet people to put that warp engine of theirs to work. You've gotta come home, son."

Trip half-turned on his seat, meeting Malcolm's eyes. "Would you..."

"Of course." Malcolm got up and stepped into the screen's visual range. From up close, he saw that both of Trip's parents were still pale underneath their tears, their shoulders trembling.

__

No wonder

, he thought. You didn't get over that kind of shock in a matter of minutes, no matter how well you appeared to cope with it.

"This is Lieutenant Malcolm Reed," Trip said. "He's the one who... took me back to Enterprise."

Malcolm looked briefly at his friend, and back at the tear streaked faces of Mr. and Mrs. Tucker. He could see Trip's point in keeping his explanation as vague as possible. _"I was given to him as a present because the Senator thought he'd enjoy screwing a slave of his own species"_ might not make for an ideal start.

He nodded his greeting. "Mr. and Mrs. Tucker..."

"Lieutenant." Susan smiled at him, still rather tearfully. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Charles nodded. "I believe we owe you our thanks."

__

I don't think so

. Malcolm thought of Trip - or Sev, rather - kneeling before him in V'Lin's assembly hall, and suddenly found it hard to look the two of them in the eyes.

"I was only doing my job," he said, and the words were hardly out of his mouth when he realized what a stupid thing to say that was. "I mean, I... "

"We understand, Lieutenant." To his surprise, Susan sounded slightly amused. "Thank you for rescuin' our son."

"So..." Charles turned back to Trip. "When are you gonna come home, son? I believe I saw somethin' on the news 'bout Enterprise's five year mission bein' almost over. You're headed back to Earth, aren't you?"

"Yes." Malcolm knew what Trip was thinking. These people were his parents, a family he hadn't seen for, well, for a lifetime, and he hated to burden them with any more. "But... it's not going to be that easy."

Haltingly at first, but with growing confidence Trip told them about Admiral Singer's orders and how T'Pol had offered to stage his and Malcolm's escape. Aware of Malcolm's warnings, he mentioned very few details, despite the fact that they were using a secured channel. Usually, it wasn't customary with Starfleet or the Joint Forces to eavesdrop on their employees - at least that was what Malcolm had thought until a few hours ago. Now, however, he found that he didn't want to take any chances, one way or the other.

"We're going to take a shuttle into space," Trip said. "There's a planet not too far from here where we can seek asylum. But we're going to have to leave tonight."

Susan and Charles had grown pale while he talked. They never tried to interrupt him, but Malcolm noticed Charles' hands clenching to fists when Trip mentioned the part about the detention center. He could feel the anger radiating from the older man.

"They've gotta be outta their minds!" Charles shook his head. Two red stains had appeared on his pale cheeks. "There must be some way you can fight that decision. It can't be legal for any organization to... to brainwash their people, or send an innocent man off to prison."

"I agree, sir." Malcolm clasped his hands behind his back. "But they're planning to do it so quickly and quietly that no one will ever notice until it's too late. And I'm sure Admiral Singer is going to have a perfect explanation for everything once the media get hold of the matter. If they get hold of it, that is. I am quite certain that the Joint Forces have their ways of keeping things under wraps."

"You've gotta get goin'", Susan said quietly. Her face was calm, her voice trembling only slightly as she continued. "If there's nothin' you can do, then you need to leave right away. Don't take any chances by waitin' too long."

"We'll be leaving in a few hours," Trip said. "But... I won't be able to take my children along."

Both of his parents started badly at that. Susan swallowed before she spoke.

"You... have children, Trip?"

Trip nodded. "Two of them." Malcolm noticed that he was watching his parents very closely, as if everything depended on how they were going to react to that particular piece of news. Malcolm bit the inside of his lip, praying that Susan and Charles wouldn't say or do anything which might do irreparable damage before they even had the chance to establish a relationship with their son.

Another moment of silence followed, then, timidly, a smile began to form on Susan's face. "How old are they?"

"Sara is almost nine Earth years old," Trip said. "Sammy is four."

"Sara and Sammy," Susan repeated, and her smile gained confidence. "Those are beautiful names."

Charles nodded, but his eyes were worried as they rested on his son. "What about their mother? She with you?"

Trip shook his head. "She's dead," he said calmly. "She died several years ago."

His parents grew still for a moment. "I'm sorry," Susan said. "Your wife... was she... I mean..."

She left the sentence unfinished, but Trip understood. "She was human," he said. "And she wasn't my wife."

"Oh." A short silence followed, silence that seemed to stretch over more than several dozen light years of space. Malcolm read the unasked questions of a whole life time on Susan's face, questions that she was afraid of asking. _You might not like the answers you'd get_, he thought. _There's a chance that you wouldn't even understand them. I myself had a hard time understanding some of the things he told me about._

It was Charles who finally spoke up again. "They can stay with us," he said, laying an arm around Susan's shoulders. "There's no way you're takin' them out into space. It's bad enough that you have to go."

Trip's mother shook off whatever thoughts had been bothering her. "A starship's no place for children, and we've got more than enough room. Of course they're stayin' with us."

Trip relaxed as if someone had taken a great weight off his shoulders. "Thank you. I... I had no idea what I was going to do if..."

"Nonsense, son," Charles interrupted him gently. "Don't worry. None of those JF people are gonna lay their hands on 'em. We'll see to it that they never get the chance."

"That's right," Susan said. "Is there any way you can get them here without anyone noticin'?"

"I believe so, ma'am." Malcolm joined the conversation again. "I'm sure Captain T'Pol will be able to arrange for a rendezvous with a Vulcan trading ship. They can go as fast as warp seven, and the children would be safely on Earth before JF Command even notices that they're gone."

"It's gonna be difficult for them," Susan said quietly. "I imagine you're very close to them, aren't you?" Of course, Trip's mother hadn't missed the look on her son's face when he talked about his children.

"I am," Trip said. "They've never been separated from me before. But I hope that Sara will understand. "

Susan nodded. "Where are the kids, anyway?"

"They're staying with Hoshi, a... a friend of mine." Trip paused. "Do you want me to get them?"

Charles shook his head. "Better talk to them first, and explain why you're leavin'. Wouldn't be the best start to introduce us and tell them at the same time that you're gonna send them away."

Susan nodded her assent. "Maybe your friend, Hoshi, can call us back in a few days when they've gotten used to the idea. I'd like to talk to them before we meet. That whole business of goin' away might be less frightenin' to them if they at least know who they're gonna be stayin' with."

If Trip had harbored any doubts about sending Sara and Sammy to stay with these people, Malcolm knew his parents' obvious concern had dispelled them. Charles and Susan seemed to think nothing of the fact that they were taking in a pair of kids they had never seen before; to them, it was the perfectly natural thing to do. Malcolm remembered his own grandparents, who had wanted nothing to do with the small, neglected boy after the authorities had taken him away from their alcoholic son-in-law. For them, the natural thing to do had been signing the forms that admitted Malcolm to the state-sponsored foster system.

__

You're lucky

, he thought, a little surprised at his own sentiments. "Family" had never been an important part of Malcolm's vocabulary, just another one of those empty words that were used in overly emotional moments when people didn't know what else to say. "Family" was the kind of thing some people had and some people didn't. Wishful thinking wouldn't get you anywhere. Maybe a somewhat cynical attitude, but Malcolm found that it worked for him.__

Damn lucky

, his treacherous mind repeated, and Malcolm silenced the idea. It was no good thinking along those lines, and especially not now, when he had more pressing matters to focus on.

He watched as Trip thanked his parents and saw the tears reappear in their eyes when they said goodbye.

"You take care, son," Charles said, resting a hand on the monitor as if he could touch his son that way. "Take care, you hear me? Both of you."

Malcolm raised his eyes and saw Trip's mother smiling at both of them.

"And come back, okay? I want you to be home for my birthday, and I'm not gonna take no for an answer."

Resolutely, she swallowed her tears and continued. "You too, Malcolm... I can call you Malcolm, can't I?"

Malcolm nodded, at a loss for words. This was something he had not expected.

"Be careful," she said. "Both of you." Mirroring her husband's gesture, she laid a hand on the monitor. "Love ya, son."

A brief silence followed. Glancing at Trip, Malcolm saw that he was biting his lower lip, as if he wanted to say something and didn't quite dare to do so. When he did speak, it was so quietly that Malcolm had to strain his ears to understand him.

"I... I love you too." _I think_, Malcolm could almost hear him add in thought, not surprised at the slight hitch in his friend's tone. Trip was basically talking to people he couldn't remember ever seeing before in his life. "And... thank you for everything."

"Don't," Charles shook his head. "Just... be careful, son." He held Trip's eyes for a second, then pulled back his hand. "Goodbye, Trip. We'll see you soon."

Trip nodded, as if he had no doubts in the matter. "Goodbye," he said quietly, then cut the connection.

For a while, they sat in silence, both lost in their own thoughts. After a while, Trip spoke up again. "I believe it's time I tell the children."

Malcolm nodded. He could see that Trip wasn't looking forward to doing so, and remembered Susan's words. _Let them get used to the idea._

Thinking of the fierce, desperate way the children loved their father, Malcolm doubted that this was an idea either of them would ever get used to.

* * *

"NO!"

Sara's face was a grimace of anger and tears. Her father reached out to pull her into a hug, but she pushed him away, her small hands clenched to fists.

"You said you weren't going to leave us! You promised!"

Malcolm's eyes fell on Sammy who was watching them, his eyes wide. The boy's face was like an open book. He hadn't really understood what his Daddy had been trying to tell them - something about going away and leaving them behind, but that couldn't be true, could it? But if it wasn't, then why was Sara crying and shouting like that?

Frightened, the little boy began to cry as well, and without thinking about it Malcolm picked him up and held him close.

"It's alright," he said soothingly. "Don't cry, Sammy."

The boy buried his face in Malcolm's shoulder, as if hiding could make the bad things go away.

"Sara, please listen to me..."

"No!" The girl was shaking with fury and despair, pushing her father's hands away. "You promised!"

She flung herself down on her bed, pulled the sheets over her head and turned to the wall. Trip's shoulders slumped as he stared at the sobbing bundle, looking almost as miserable as the child on the bed. Malcolm knew that father and daughter weren't used to arguing; for Trip's family, it had always been "us against the rest of the world", leaving no room for petty disagreements.

He watched as Trip carefully sat down on the edge of the bed.

"Sara."

There was no reaction. Trip laid a hand on the bundle of blankets.

"Sara, please. Look at me."

The blankets moved and Sara's ruffled head emerged, her face streaked with tears. "Leave me alone! I hate you!"

Her last few words were muffled, spoken with her face buried in the pillows. Trip flinched, but he never pulled his hand away. Instead, he gently tugged back the covers until he could look at the girl's face.

"Sara, I understand that you're upset. But I need you to listen to me. Please."

The only answer was another muffled sob.

"Sara, I don't want to go away. If there was any other way, I'd stay here. But I can't."

She raised her head. "But why? Why can't you stay?"

Trip sighed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, honey... there are some people back on Earth who are afraid that Malcolm and I know about things which could be bad for them. They ordered Captain T'Pol to lock us up, and if we go back to Earth, we'll be taken away to prison."

He exchanged a quick glance with Malcolm, a silent message that he wouldn't mention the brainwashing part in front of the children.

Sara's lips were trembling. "Are we... are Sammy and me going to be sold?"

"Oh Sara." Trip took the girl in his arms and this time she didn't try to fight him. "Of course not. Humans don't buy and sell people."

"But they're going to lock you up in prison," the girl insisted. "It's the same thing."

__

Can't argue with her there

, Malcolm thought. Sara's way of seeing through things could be scary at times.

Trip said nothing and kept rocking the girl until her sobs subsided.

"Daddy?" When Sara spoke again, her voice had regained some of its strength.

"Yes?"

"Why can't we go with you and Malcolm? There's enough room in the shuttle for the four of us."

On hearing the word "shuttle", Sammy raised his head. "Oh please Daddy, I wanna fly in the shuttle, too! Please!"

Trip smiled at the boy's enthusiasm. "No, pumpkin. You and Sara, you have to stay here."

Sara stiffened in his arms. "But why can't we go with you?"

Trip leaned back so he could look at her. "It would be too dangerous, honey. I want to make sure you'll be safe until Malcolm and I come back."

Sara said nothing, staring down at her hands. Trip continued gently.

"But I need your help here, honey. Enterprise will soon meet with a Vulcan ship that's going to take you and Sammy back to Earth. You'll be going on a journey all by yourself, and Sammy will need someone who looks after him. Do you think you can do that, Sara?"

She looked up at him, her expression solemn. "I... I think so, Daddy."

Trip drew her close. "I know I'm asking a lot of you, honey. But it's only a couple of weeks on the Vulcan ship, and once you're back on Earth you're going to stay with my... with my family. They'll be taking care of you and Sammy."

Sara's eyes widened. "Your family, Daddy?"

"That's right." Trip smiled at her. "My mother and father. Your grandparents. They live back on Earth."

Sara plucked at the sheets, digesting this information. "What if they don't want us to come and stay with them?" she asked then. "They don't even know us."

"No, they don't," Trip admitted. "But they want to meet you. I talked to them, and they promised me to look after you. You'll be safe with them."

Sara bit her lip. "But I want to stay with you, Daddy."

Trip stroked her hair. "I know, honey," he said quietly. "I know."

Sammy had kept quiet up until now, sucking his fingers as he listened, wide-eyed, to their conversation. Now, however, he began to squirm in Malcolm's arms.

"Daddy!"

Malcolm put him down and the boy sped across to his father, climbing into his lap and wiggling around until he was comfortable. Then he wrapped his arms around Trip's midst.

"I'm gonna stay with you, Daddy," he announced. "I'm not going back to Earth."

Trip pulled him closer. "I know you want to stay with me, partner," he said. "But Sara and you have to go back to Earth and wait there for me."

The boy considered this. "How far away is Earth?" he asked then.

"Quite far," Trip admitted. "But you're going to like it there, I promise. Your grandparents live in a nice, sunny place. You'll be able to play outside all day."

Sammy smiled at the prospect. "Really?"

Trip nodded. "Really."

Sammy leaned back against his father, a thoughtful expression crossing his face. Malcolm could see that the boy's mind was a thousand miles away, trying to file away the new information. The fact that his father was leaving didn't seem to worry him yet - not really, anyway - and it probably wouldn't until Sammy realized that Trip was actually gone. Then, however... Malcolm was glad it wasn't going to be him stuck with the unenviable task of explaining to the little boy why his Daddy had suddenly disappeared.

They sat there for another ten minutes, Trip holding his children as their eyes slowly began to droop. Before they fell asleep, however, he gently extricated himself from their grip and laid them down on their bed (the children still insisted on curling up together rather than sleeping in separate beds).

Sammy snuggled into his pillow and was instantly asleep. Trip kissed his cheek, then turned to Sara who gazed up at him with sleepy, brown eyes.

"Goodbye, honey." He tucked her in so that only her dark face was still visible. "Malcolm and I are going to leave now. I'll ask Hoshi to come by and check on you in the morning so you won't be on your own. Are you going to be okay?"

A tear escaped from the corner of her eye, but she quickly brushed it away. "Sure, Daddy." She smiled shakily and continued in a deep voice, obviously imitating someone: "We make a good team, don't we, old boy?"

Trip grinned at what was apparently an inside joke between them. "We sure do, boss."

Sara smiled again and closed her eyes, letting out a small sigh. Trip brushed away a stray lock that had fallen across her forehead.

"Goodnight, Sara. I'm proud of you."

After that, he quickly got up, not looking at Malcolm as he walked over to the door. Malcolm followed him outside only to see Trip leaning against the wall next to the door with his back turned to him. His shoulders were trembling. Malcolm said nothing and waited, acting as if he hadn't noticed when Trip brushed a hand over his eyes. After a while, Trip turned around again. His face was rigid, not giving away any emotions.

An awkward silence settled between them as they walked down the corridor. Several times, Malcolm opened his mouth to say something and closed it again, dismissing whatever words had come to his mind. When he finally did speak, however, what came out was not at all what he had intended to say.

"So what was that about the good team?"

Trip seemed surprised at first, then a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Oh, that. It's an old joke. Remember how I told you I sometimes tinkered around with the farm equipment?"

Malcolm nodded.

"Well, Ja'Lin - the Kareedian who ran the farm - didn't want anyone to think that he couldn't handle his own equipment. So whenever I did another repair job he would stand right next to me and pretend to give me instructions. Everyone knew he didn't know a thing about machines, but every time the thing was up and running again he'd clap me on the back and say what a good team we made together."

Malcolm grinned. They didn't speak as they continued their way down to the shuttle hangar, but the tension between them seemed to have eased. Malcolm briefly stopped at his quarters to collect a few personal items, and Trip used his console to leave a voice-recorded message for Hoshi, asking her if she could check on his children once in a while and see to it that they got their meals and did their schoolwork. Malcolm knew that it wasn't necessary - Sara and Sammy were very popular with the crew, and there would be more than enough willing babysitters handy if needed - but he said nothing. Hoshi would be happy that Trip had asked for her help, in particular, and the children seemed to be fond of her.

Entering the shuttle bay, Malcolm felt his earlier apprehension return. It had been there all along, buried under the surface as he watched Trip make his call and speak to his children. All of this was going so fast, time racing past him as he did what was necessary to prepare for their departure. And here he was, carrying a bag with clothes and hastily gathered personal things, like a teenager running away from home. Back at the foster home, he had sometimes fantasized about climbing out the window at night, leaving for the airport and taking the next shuttle to anywhere, even though he had known that he would never find the courage to actually do so. But he had imagined how it would feel, to leave everything behind. He had always envisaged it would be rather dramatic, as if he were the hero of a thriller - one of those guys who would steal a flitter and escape on the highway with the police in hot pursuit. Now, however, he couldn't find anything particularly thrilling about their escape. There was an emptiness in his chest when he looked around, and a dull, helpless anger that he would be forced to do this. As T'Pol had ordered, no one was here to witness their departure; even the crewman on duty had been released. It felt as if they were sneaking out, jumping at the opportunity when no one was looking. It didn't feel right.

To his surprise, he suddenly felt a hand on his arm. Malcolm half-turned around and saw Trip looking at him.

"We'll be back," Trip said firmly, as if trying to reassure himself and Malcolm at the same time. "Back in no time."

Malcolm nodded, unable to say anything else. Slowly, they walked over to Shuttlepod I, and with a hand that was only slightly trembling, Malcolm reached out to open the hatch.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	13. Chapter 12

Chapter 12

"All done?" Trip smiled.

Malcolm grinned back. "All done."

All the same, he gave their handiwork a last, critical look-over. It looked more like a random assembly of wires and unidentifiable mechanical parts than a sophisticated tracking device, but it was going to do its job. And with the limited tools they had at their disposal, Malcolm found they had done quite well. All that was left to do now was to connect the ugly thing with the communication console.

He picked up the connection cable he had prepared, and plugged it into the opening at the back of the device. For a brief second, nothing happened, then the systems powered up with a barely audible hum. Malcolm wiped his hands on his trousers.

"It works. We did a good job."

"_You_ did a good job," Trip corrected as he gathered up the scattered precision tools and microspanners and neatly stowed them away in the kit. "I only aligned the microcircuits..."

"... and installed the encoder and tested the back-up systems for the power supply," Malcolm added dryly. "You did half of the work, Trip."

Trip said nothing as he closed the tool kit, but Malcolm saw that he was pleased. They had been working on the tracking device for the last five days, and it had proved a challenge, building the advanced instrument with only a standard tool kit and the spare parts Malcolm had hastily gathered together before their departure. They had spent hours sitting on the floor of the shuttle, tinkering with the individual components and aligning the parts that needed to fit together. Once again, Malcolm had been surprised how fast Trip picked up on the advanced mechanics involved; he never needed to be told the same thing twice, and often worked it out on his own before Malcolm even had the chance to give him instructions.

__

If we ever get back to Earth, I'm going to tell M'Benga about this

, Malcolm had found himself thinking as he watched Trip work on the microcircuits.

_He'll get his engineering genius, all right._

"In a way it's a pity that we're done," Trip said, breaking into his thoughts. Malcolm looked at him, and Trip smiled, a little embarrassed. "I... I've never had that much fun before."

"I noticed," Malcolm smiled. "I'm afraid the Captain needs only one tracking device to locate us, though."

"Will we be able to communicate with Enterprise?" Trip asked, eyeing the device critically. "Or is it just a one-way transmission?"

"We'd need to add a subspace amplifier to cross the distance," Malcolm said, and felt secretly amused when he saw Trip's eyes lighten at the idea. "I'm afraid I didn't bring the necessary spare parts, though. Like this, T'Pol will be able to track down the shuttle's signature and pinpoint our approximate position, but we won't be able to communicate. We'll have to find another way to contact them once we're on Denobula."

Trip nodded, his eyes still lingering on the device that was giving off a low, steady hum. "Have you ever been there?" he asked. "On Denobula, I mean?"

Malcolm shook his head. "We've been in orbit around it once, but I wasn't part of the diplomatic team going down to the surface. They say it's a beautiful world. Mostly forests and huge lakes, and the cities are famous for their architecture."

"I imagine it's beautiful," Trip said. Recognizing the absentminded tone of voice, Malcolm knew that Trip was thinking of his children. No matter how beautiful Denobula was, he wouldn't be able to appreciate it if Sara and Sammy were on a different world several dozen light-years away. Trip was trying not to let just how badly he missed them show, but Malcolm had noticed the way he would fall silent at times and withdraw into himself. He was hurting, and even though Malcolm had a hard time admitting it to himself, he could sympathize with Trip's feelings. There had been times when Malcolm had come dangerously close to depression himself.

It was ironic, in a way, that he should feel homesick for Enterprise. He had never been enthusiastic about transferring off the _T'Ler_, and it was only during the last two years that he had begun to feel at ease at his new post. Now, however, he found himself thinking of Enterprise as if it were the only home he had ever known. A rather melodramatic notion, maybe, but nevertheless it was the truth. He missed the ship, and most of all he missed the people aboard. Malcolm wasn't quite sure if that feeling was something he needed to worry about, and decided to stop that particular train of thought before it took him somewhere he didn't want to go.

"Are you hungry?" he asked. "I know I could use some lunch."

Trip nodded, shaking off whatever thoughts had been occupying him. "Lunch sounds good."

Malcolm opened the storage compartment. "Let's see... we've got prime ribs, vegetable casserole, meatloaf and mashed potatoes, and fried noodles with bamboo sprouts. Oh, and another one of those horrible Vulcan soups... _Va'ron_, I think it is."

The ration packs came in fifteen different varieties, but Malcolm didn't want to open a new box when they hadn't finished this one yet.

He turned around to Trip. "What would you like?"

"You pick yours first," Trip said. Malcolm had expected no different; there were a few things that Trip still wouldn't do, and one of them was picking a meal before Malcolm had chosen his. Knowing that Trip was rather fond of meatloaf, Malcolm decided to have the fried noodles. He had a feeling that yet again, the _Va'ron_ soup would be the last pack left in the box.

While Trip heated up their meals in the shuttle's small microwave oven, Malcolm went to run a quick check of the navigation systems. So far, they had been lucky; there had been no malfunctions worth mentioning, and the most exciting thing they had stumbled across had been a small asteroid field. Malcolm kept his fingers crossed that it was going to stay that way. If they continued at this speed, they would be entering orbit around Denobula in about two and a half weeks' time.

"Here." Trip came up next to the helm and handed him his meal.

"Thanks." Sitting down on one of the rear benches, Malcolm peeled the plastic covering off the small food container. The noodle dish looked less soggy than he had expected, and Malcolm dug into his meal with a fair amount of gusto. Working on the tracking device had left him hungry.

Trip had taken a seat on the opposite bench and pulled out a padd, his eyes fixed on the small display while he forked meatloaf into his mouth. Malcolm noticed a familiar frown crease his forehead.

"More homework?" he asked.

Trip raised his eyes. "Yes. But I don't seem to be getting anywhere." He laid the padd aside with a small sigh. "Sometimes I think I'll never get the hang of it."

"That's not true." Leaning over, Malcolm picked up the padd and scrolled through its contents. "This is Lesson 10. Hoshi said that most adult learners don't get to that proficiency level in their first three or four months. And you only started eight weeks ago."

Trip still didn't look happy. "I've got to be able to read and understand technical manuals if I want to work as an engineer. As it is, I still have problems reading a text about..." He glanced at the headline at the top of the padd. "... about someone going shopping."

Malcolm skimmed through the paragraph which described - in neatly mapped-out detail - a tour through an average supermarket. "Maybe if they made those texts less dull it'd be more fun to concentrate on the lesson they're trying to get across," he commented, handing the padd back to Trip. "Anyway, I don't think you need to worry. Hoshi told me that at the rate you're going, you'll be able to read and write fluently in less than six months' time. And you'll have more than enough time to practise, now that we're done with the tracking device."

Trip nodded, staring down at the padd in his hands with a strange expression on his face.

"Trip?" Malcolm asked carefully.

"I... " Trip shook his head. "I just remembered how Deborah tried to teach me the English alphabet. I never really put that much effort into it, thinking I'd never need it anyway. Most of the time I was too tired to concentrate. She kept trying, though, saying that learning how to read would be a good exercise for the mind, if nothing else. Now I see what she meant. I think this," he raised the padd, "would come easier to me if I'd tried harder back then."

Malcolm said nothing for a while. There were a number of things he wanted to ask Trip, questions that had been on his mind for some time now, but he wasn't sure if Trip was willing to confide that part of his life to him yet. Or if he was ever going to do so, at all. From the little Trip had told him about the mother of his children, it was apparent that the memories linked with her were painful, mingled with an undercurrent of anger and shame. Malcolm had a vague suspicion of how their relationship had come into existence, and if he was right, then he could see why Trip wouldn't want to talk about it.

"How come Deborah could read?" he asked finally. "She would have been abducted as a child as well, wouldn't she?"

Trip was still staring down at the padd. "I believe the _MoH'kwan _caught her roughly around the same time when they caught me. But she was already a teenager at the time. Deborah was almost ten years older than me."

"So she remembered about Earth?" Malcolm asked.

Trip nodded. "She remembered that her parents, Sara and Samuel Winter, had been killed when she and her brother were abducted. But she never talked about her past. Said it hurt her too much to think about it."

Malcolm was silent for a while. "Did you love her?" he asked then, quietly.

Trip said nothing, at first. A flicker of pain crossed his face, and Malcolm had already opened his mouth to apologize when Trip spoke up again.

"No. I don't think I did. But I respected her. She was a good person. And smart. Hell of a lot smarter than I'll ever be." Finally, he raised his eyes to look at Malcolm. "We didn't have much of a choice, you see? No one asked us if this was something we wanted."

A sick feeling rose in the back of Malcolm's throat.

"They forced you to... have children?" he asked. The words left a bitter taste in his mouth. Trip's eyes had returned to the padd in his hands.

"Yeah. Ja'Lin wanted to... to sell them when they were old enough to do hard work. I wanted to kill him when he told me." Trip's fingers clenched the padd so hard that they were shaking. "That was when I first met her... I'd never seen her before, and there he was, telling me I...we...had to... and all I could think of was killing him."

Malcolm tried, and failed, to imagine how he would have reacted to someone treating him like a breeding animal. Beating that someone to a bloody pulp was one of the less violent options that came to his mind. Not trusting himself to speak, he waited for Trip to continue.

"He said he was going to send us away if we disobeyed him. Cast us out, you know. I... I just stood there. I couldn't think. Then he made some... some joke, and I knew I couldn't take any more or I'd have killed him on the spot. I turned around and left. I knew he was going to punish me later, but it would've gotten a lot worse if I'd stayed."

Carefully, Trip set the padd aside. His hands were still trembling. "I don't know what would've happened if it hadn't been for her. Deborah, I mean. She came to me..."

He trailed off, his eyes fixed on a spot next to Malcolm's shoulder. Without thinking about it, Malcolm put his meal aside and got up to sit next to Trip. He could almost feel the tension radiating from the other man. For a few seconds, neither of them spoke.

Malcolm hesitated. He'd have hated for Trip to think that he was prying, intruding into things that were none of his business. But maybe if he wanted to help Trip let go of the anger and pain he had to do exactly that. Praying that he was doing the right thing, he carefully rested a hand on the other man's shoulder.

"Want to tell me the whole story?"

For a moment, Trip said nothing. Then he turned his head to look at Malcolm.

"I don't know if I want to. But..." He paused. "I guess I should."

Malcolm wasn't sure what to make of Trip's answer and so he simply nodded, indicating that he was ready to listen.

After a while, Trip began to speak.

****

Part III

Sev strode away from the house, his hands clenched to fists and shaking. The mental image of closing his fingers around Ja'Lin's throat, increasing the pressure until the man's windpipe crushed under his grip was still vivid in his mind, and he knew that he had to keep walking, get away from here before he did something that would sign his own death warrant.

The face of the woman came back to him, a dark mask of carefully concealed anger and humiliation. Her eyes had softened when she looked at him, had silently warned him not to do anything he was going to regret. But he knew he couldn't have taken any more. If he hadn't left, he would have killed the man.

He walked past the stables where he slept at night, past the shed where he and Sarin kept their equipment, and broke into a jog when he had reached the meadow where the _ghurat_ were grazing. A few of the shaggy animals raised their heads, then continued their feeding when they recognized the familiar figure. Sev never looked at them. He picked up his pace, without really noticing what he was doing. He had always loved to run, although he hardly ever got the chance to do so. The pale blue grass felt soft under his feet, and he found that with every step it became easier for him to control his violent anger. His hands were still shaking, but at least he was able to think again. The first thing he realized was that by walking out on Ja'Lin he had probably earned himself a flogging. Again.

Sev came a to a halt next to a large tree that stood at the edge of the field. He would come here every now and then, just to be alone for a while - not very often, of course, since his work hardly ever left him time to do so. Sarin had shown him this place years ago, saying that it was good for meditation. Sev didn't know how to meditate; when he came here, he would simply sit in the grass and enjoy the silence and the absence of people. It was one of the few places where he could find something resembling a state of peace.

Not today, however. He was still shaking when he lowered himself to the ground, his mind returning to the things Ja'Lin had said.

__

"I don't want to hear a word from you. And if I find out you disobeyed me, you're going to be out of here before you know it. I'm not taking any of your nonsense this time."

Out of here. The idea of Ja'Lin casting him out had suddenly lost some of its terror. He might even have a chance; he was young and strong, and there was the possibility that he would survive long enough to go into hiding somewhere. Live in the forest, maybe. Anything seemed better than staying here.

But even if he managed to somehow get by, the woman certainly wouldn't. She would be killed in a matter of days, and even if she somehow escaped the mob she wouldn't make it for long.

Sev rested his head on his arms and closed his eyes. He didn't know that woman, so there was no reason why he should care what happened to her. If she couldn't survive as an outcast then it wasn't his problem. Being honest with himself, however, he knew that even his chances of staying alive were rather slim. He wouldn't be able to survive without stealing food, and if they caught him he would die a violent and definitely painful death. Kareedian society took care of its own, one way or another.

Sev felt something hot rise in his eyes, burning behind his closed lids. It had been years since he had cried, and he didn't even know why he would feel so strongly about the thing he had been ordered to do. It wasn't unusual, and Ja'Lin expected him to do as he had been told without a question or word of protest. A tear threatened to trickle down, and he quickly wiped it off. Back in the house, he had wanted to scream at the man that he was not an animal, that this was a thing he had no right to ask of him. But Ja'Lin had every right, of course. It was he who would be breaking the rules if he disobeyed.

It wasn't so much the fact that he would have to sleep with someone he hardly knew or cared about. He had done that before, spent a night with one of the female farm workers just because it brought a change in the dull toil that was their life. He had never expected any of those brief encounters to evolve into a relationship, however. People like him didn't have relationships. Free people might have the time and energy for that sort of thing; he and the others only lived to serve, end of story.

But this was different. He felt... humiliated by Ja'Lin's orders, helplessly infuriated that even this private part of his life should be controlled by that man. That he should be coerced into this farce of a relationship only so his children could be sold one day.

He squeezed his eyes shut and the tears trickled down his face, feeling strangely cold on his skin. His breathing was harsh, but he refused to give in to the sobs that threatened to come out. It was all he had left, acting as if none of this really concerned him, as if none of the things they did could ever hurt him. Sev wasn't going to give up on that one small victory. Illogical, Sarin would have said, but for Sev, life was hardly ever logical.

He stayed that way for a long time, his head resting on his arms, focusing so hard on holding back his tears that he never even heard the approaching steps until it was too late.

Someone came to a halt next to him. Sev raised his head, fully expecting that it was Ja'Lin who had come to punish him for walking out on him. He made as if to stand up, but stopped short when he realized that it wasn't the Kareedian who had followed him to his private hiding place. It was the woman.

They stared at each other for a few seconds, then, to Sev's astonishment, a tentative smile formed on her face. "May I?" she asked.

At first, he had no idea what she was talking about, realizing only a moment later that she was asking if she could sit down next to him. Nonplussed, he moved over to make room for her. He had never known anyone who would go to the trouble of asking permission.

She sat down gracefully, and Sev glanced at her out of the corner of his eye. She was a small person, almost delicate. Standing up she would hardly reach up to his shoulders, her arms and legs almost fragile in their appearance. Her skin was of a dark brown, the color of fresh wet earth.

He saw her smile and realized a second too late that he had been staring. Embarrassed, he turned his eyes away, looking at the grazing animals instead.

"My name is Deborah," she said after a while. Silence ensued as she waited, but he had no idea what to say in response. This sort of... kindness was not what he had expected. He would have been less confused if she had started the conversation by spitting in his face.

"Deborah Winter," she tried again. "What's your name?"

He shrugged. "Everyone here calls me Sev." _But that's not my name_, he added in thought. That was one thing he knew for sure, something he had always known. It was none of her business, though.

Suddenly she said something in a different language, words that sounded vaguely familiar. He looked up in surprise.

"What..."

She repeated the words more slowly this time. "Do you speak English?"

"Yes." The alien word was out of his mouth before he even noticed that he was speaking a different language. And he did speak that language, he realized. It must be the human tongue, words that still cropped up in his mind from time even though he had not said any of them aloud since he was a small child. "I... I think. I..." His words failed him and he switched back to Kareedian. "I have not spoken it in a while."

"Neither have I," she answered in the same language and smiled. "Maybe we can teach each other."

He stared at her. Teach each other? The way she talked, it seemed almost as if the argument back at the house had never happened at all. As if she had no idea what this was all about.

When he didn't answer, she continued. "Look. It's not as though I want this. For a moment back there, I... I wanted to kill him. That's why you left, wasn't it? You were afraid you wouldn't be able to hold back any longer."

He nodded mutely.

She was silent for a while, then continued quietly. "I wish I could do it, too. Kill him, or just... go away. But... " She looked up at him, her face solemn. "That would get me killed too, wouldn't it? I wouldn't stand a chance."

Hearing his own thoughts coming from her was another thing he had not expected. She seemed to understand what odds they were up against. "They'd kill both of us."

She nodded, her dark eyes still intent on his face. "I don't want to die, Sev. Do you?"

It wasn't a rhetorical question. Slowly, he shook his head. "No."

She held his gaze for another moment, then they both turned their eyes away. The _ghurat_ had moved to another part of the meadow in the meantime, flicking their long, purple tails to chase away the flies. Sev watched how they slowly moved from one tuft of grass to the next, as if they didn't have a care in the world.

It was true, he did not want to die. And he was afraid of what would happen if he was cast out. He had heard stories about outcasts being raped and murdered and tortured to death, by Kareedians who saw it as a welcome interruption of their day-to-day life if they could vent their anger on someone whom the law had declared a non-person. Sev had seen the victim of a public killing once, a young man whose features were hardly recognizable anymore after he had been beaten to death by an angry mob. It was not how he wanted to die.

"I... " Deborah's voice broke through his thoughts, and he pushed the memory away. "I just wanted to say, I don't... hold any grudge against you. And I hope that you're not angry with me. It'll make things easier if we don't blame each other."

"I don't blame you," he said quietly. "It's not your fault."

She was silent, resting her chin on her knees as she watched the grazing _ghurat_. She didn't look happy, but her face was oddly calm, as if she had decided not to waste her anger on things she couldn't change. Sev found that he could respect that.

"Thank you," he offered, surprised at his own words. "For coming here to talk to me," he elaborated when she raised her eyebrows at him. "I... I wouldn't..."

He wasn't sure how to tell her that he wouldn't have been able to do the same thing, but she seemed to understand. "That's alright," she said quietly.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the grazing animals, and Sev found her company strangely comforting. At least, he thought, he wasn't going to hate that woman.

* * *

"Sara was born a year later," Trip said. "Deborah had a delicate constitution, and she was ill through most of her pregnancy. She almost died on the day she delivered her, and had a high fever for weeks afterwards. Miss Elin showed me how to care for the baby. I was lucky that someone did, since I had no idea what to do. It was almost three months before Deborah could get out of bed again."

"Didn't they get a doctor to look at her?" Malcolm asked.

Trip pressed his lips together. "Yeah, but it was only lucky coincidence. Ja'Lin's wife had broken her wrist, and so he had to come anyway. He took a brief look at Deborah and said that another pregnancy would kill her. That was at a time when we didn't think she would make it."

Malcolm said nothing, waiting for Trip to continue.

"It took Deborah several years to recover. Her health was always fragile after her pregnancy, and it didn't help that Ja'Lin put her back to work as soon as she was feeling a little better. I don't think she would've made it if it hadn't been for Sara. She was crazy about her." Trip smiled a little. "She was the one who picked the name, and insisted that we talk English to her as often as we could, even though it wasn't allowed. I had forgotten most of it, and so she had to teach me first. Took me some time until I was able to speak it fluently again, but she never gave up on me. She was the most patient person I've ever known."

He paused briefly, his smile fading. "Sara was four when Ja'Lin said he wanted us to have another child. He said that she'd had enough time to recover. I couldn't believe that he would do such a thing, but Deborah wasn't really surprised. She got really frightened when he threatened to send her away, though. Said she'd rather die here than be killed as an outcast. In the end, we... had no choice."

Trip rested his face in his hands. "She was so sick we never thought she would make it through the nine months. The last few weeks she couldn't even get up anymore. She'd lost so much weight I thought the baby was literally going to starve her to death. I... couldn't even look after her most of the time, Ja'Lin wouldn't let me... he threatened to take Sara away from me if I neglected my work."

He took a deep breath. "Somehow, though, she made it. I think she kept herself alive through sheer will-power. She... she asked me to make sure that they'd never sell our children and I promised, although I knew I wouldn't be able to do anything about it if Ja'Lin decided to give them away. I couldn't ..."

He broke off. Malcolm rested a hand on his shoulder, feeling the tense muscles tremble under his fingers. "You did the right thing."

Trip shook his head. "She knew that I was making a promise I couldn't keep. I think... I think at that point she just wanted to hear that everything was going to be all right. And I told her so."

Malcolm hesitated. "She died in childbirth?" he asked then, quietly.

Trip nodded. "Yeah. The day Sammy was born."

* * *

The narrow bed in the room behind the kitchen was stained with red. Elin, hurrying back and forth between bed and kitchen, tried to staunch the blood flow with disinfected cloths and towels, but to little effect. Deborah bled so hard it pooled on the sheets next to her body, and Sev realized with a cold certainty that no one could lose that much blood and survive.

The dying woman on the bed moved her lips, but no sound came out.

"Say it again, dear," Elin said, stroking Deborah's sweaty hair out of her face. "We didn't hear you."

"... want to see her," Deborah whispered, her eyes resting on the bundle in Sev's arms. "Show me."

"It's a boy," Sev said, carefully placing the baby next to her on the bed. With trembling fingers, he pulled the towel aside so she could see the small brown body. "Here."

"A boy," she said, her lips parting in a smile. She reached out to stroke the baby's cheek. "Is he alright?"

"He's fine," Elin said, and folded up a wet cloth to place it on Deborah's forehead. "And he looks just like you, dear."

She was right. The baby's heart-shaped face was a smaller version of his mother's features, and when the little boy turned his head, Sev saw that even the dark eyes were the same. Deborah smiled.

"Sev..."

He leaned forward, close to her face. "Yes?"

"You'll take care of them, won't you?" she whispered. It took him a second to realize that she was speaking English. "Tell Sara... tell Sara that I love her. I don't want her to see... all this..." She gestured weakly at the blood on the bed. "Tell her that I love her. And... tell him when he's old enough..."

She closed her eyes and a pained shudder ran through her body. "Oh, it hurts..."

"You'll be alright," he answered in the same language, gently closing his fingers around her hand. "You'll be just fine."

"No," Deborah shook her head. "You know that I won't, Sev. I'm dying. Promise me that you'll tell them. Please..."

"I promise," he said, a slight crack in his voice that he was barely aware of himself. "I'll tell them. And I'll take care of them..."

"I know you will." Her eyes drifted close again. Sev watched her and felt his fingers grow cold around her hand. Then, after an endless second, she opened her eyes again and slightly turned her head to look at the baby.

"What... are you going to call him?" she whispered.

"I don't know," he said hoarsely. "I don't know any human names..."

"Sammy," she said, and for a brief moment her limp hand grew stronger, gently squeezing his fingers. "What do you think of... Sammy..."

"Sammy's fine." He swallowed. "Deborah..."

Her eyes came to rest on him. "It's alright..." Her fingers slackened in his hand. "You'll... do fine. I know you will. You..."

He watched her eyes close shut, saw how her chest rose and fell once more, then stopped. The pain lines had left her face. She lay still.

With her labored breathing gone, there was only silence left. Sev sat motionless, and hardly felt it when Elin gently pulled Deborah's hand from his fingers, placing it at the dead woman's side.

"Sev." The old woman laid a hand on his shoulder. "Sev. You need to take care of the baby. He'll be hungry."

She picked up the small bundle and placed it in his arms. The little boy had fallen asleep, his tiny hands curled under his chin. Sev stared down at him, unable to speak.

"I know," Miss Elin said quietly. "But you're the only one he has left. They're going to need you now more than ever, he and his sister. You understand that, Sev?"

He nodded, his eyes still resting on the baby who looked so much like Deborah. "I understand."

"What's going on here?"

The loud voice made them both startle, and they turned around. Ja'Lin stood in the door, his disgust apparent as his eyes traveled over the room. He pointed at the bed.

"She dead?"

Neither of them answered. He stepped closer and roughly pulled the baby from Sev's arms, shaking off the towel so he could inspect the small body. His large red hands wrapped around the baby's torso, he turned the boy from side to side, ignoring his startled crying.

"Well, he seems to be alright. A little puny looking maybe, but he'll grow. Would have been such a waste if he had died as well."

He gave the baby to Elin and threw a brief glance at the bed. "Well, she was always the feeble type."

A lopsided grin appeared on his face when he turned to Sev. "You'll have your hands full with the little ones, won't you? Never mind the stable work today, I'll tell Sarin to take care of it."

Ja'Lin turned to the door with the air of a man who has just granted someone a huge favor. Before he left, he glanced briefly over his shoulder. "Oh, and do take care of that mess, will you? My wife'll have a fit when she sees it."

Later, Sev didn't remember what had happened in the few seconds before he reached out to grab Ja'Lin's shoulder. All he knew was that he suddenly found himself spinning the man around and slamming him into a nearby wall, so hard that Ja'Lin cried out with pain.

"You don't give a shit, do you?" Sev shouted, his fist that was curled around Ja'Lin's shirt pressing against the man's throat. "It's your fault that she's dead and you just don't give a shit! You fucking asshole, I'm gonna - kill - you!"

Each of the three words was accompanied by a punch in the man's face, and a wild, trembling satisfaction ran through him when he felt Ja'Lin's nose crack under his fist. The man screamed as blood gushed over his mouth, and tried to push him away. Sev pulled his fist back for another blow, but he never got the chance to deliver it. Someone grabbed him from behind and pulled him away from Ja'Lin, who held his broken nose with both hands, moaning and uttering muffled swears. A second before a blow plunged him into darkness, Sev got another glimpse of Elin who stood in the door with the baby in her arms, her face pale.

__

I'm sorry

, he thought. 

_I'm so sorry._

Malcolm stared at his friend. "What... what happened?"

Trip sighed. "Ja'Lin and his men took me outside. I was only semi-conscious at the time and thought they were going to kill me. They almost did, too, kicked me and beat me with iron bars and I don't know what else until I passed out. I think Ja'Lin stopped them at some point. He probably didn't want to lose two of his workers at the same time."

"Is that how your arm and ribs were broken?" Malcolm asked, remembering the scans that had shown Trip's slightly crooked ribs and the old fracture in his left arm.

"Yeah. I could barely move when I woke up, I was in so much pain. Sarin saved my life. He and Elin took care of me for the next few weeks, and looked after Sara and the baby until I was able to do it myself. They told me that I was an idiot for what I had done, that I had only made things worse. They were right, of course. I guess... I guess that moment after Deborah had died I just lost it."

"Understandably so," Malcolm muttered. "Did Ja'Lin..."

"Cast me out?" Trip shook his head. "No. He couldn't afford to do that. Sarin died a few months later, and he needed me to take care of the animals and the equipment. And he would have lost the children as well, since there was no one to look after them except for me.. But..." Trip pressed his lips together. "He made me apologize. Get down on my knees and all. And I did. I was afraid of what would happen if they beat me up again. And there were Sara and Sammy, of course."

Malcolm was silent for a while. Trip's story had only given him a vague idea of all the pain and hate that must have built up in those people over the years. But even from the little he had been told, he could hardly imagine how anyone could have gone on living under such circumstances. How anyone could actually raise his children like that was beyond him.

Trip seemed to pick up on his thoughts. "It wasn't easy after Deborah died. I hardly found the time to look after the children, and Ja'Lin picked on me whenever he got the chance. He couldn't forget that I had socked him one. I think he was rather happy when Senator V'Lin bought me and had me taken to the city so I could be given to you."

Malcolm winced. He did not like to be reminded of the scene back at the Senator's house, when he had bargained for Trip's children as if they were two cheap pieces of furniture.

"At first, I had no idea what V'Lin would want with me," Trip said. "No one bothered to tell me. When they led me into the assembly hall and I heard the Senator's speech, I realized, of course. I was scared to death that they would take the children away from me." Trip's eyes were solemn. "I believe I've never thanked you for what you did back then."

Malcolm shook his head, not sure whether to laugh or cry. "Trip... "

"You saved them."

Malcolm decided against both options, and laid a hand on Trip's arm instead. "I'd rather you wouldn't thank me for any of things I did back on Kareedia. I... I feel pretty bad about the way I treated you."

Seeing that Trip had no idea what he was talking about, he sighed. "Look... I had to pretend I looked down on you, treat you as... inferior. The way Ja'Lin and the Senator did. I still feel ashamed about it."

Trip shook his head. "You never treated me as inferior."

Malcolm sighed. "Let's just say we didn't have an ideal start."

To his surprise, Trip smiled slightly. "Agreed."

Malcolm leaned back against the wall, glancing at his half-eaten dish of noodles and the meatloaf Trip had barely touched. Neither dish looked very appetizing anymore.

"Want me to put that back into the microwave oven?" he asked, pointing at the two meals. He did not feel particularly enthusiastic at the idea himself, but it would not do to let any of their rations go to waste.

Trip nodded. "We'd better finish them, hadn't we?"

They ate their meal in silence, Malcolm glancing at Trip from time to time. He didn't look particularly upset, even though Malcolm knew that reliving those memories must have been painful. It took a lot of courage to face a past as harsh as the one Trip had been through. And it took a fair amount of trust to share it with a friend.

After a while, Malcolm spoke up again. "Thank you," he said. Trip looked up, and Malcolm continued, "For telling me about Deborah. I know it wasn't easy."

Trip's eyes rested on him for a moment. "I never thought I'd ever tell anyone about her. I never thought anyone would listen."

Trip picked up his padd, which he had abandoned earlier. Before he returned his attention to his study work, however, he smiled briefly and there was nothing strained about the expression. "Thank _you."_

This time, Malcolm nodded.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!

* * *


	14. Chapter 13

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback ;)!

Emiliana Keladry (I totally agree with you – thanks for reviewing!), BananaTrip (exactly, those two anywhere near a shuttlepod spells trouble… ;) ), stage manager (thanks for sticking with the story; I'll keep updating as regularly as I can), JadziaKathryn (exactly my thoughts, it's even more depressing to think about it when you know that such things have actually happened), firebirdgirl (thanks, and happy reading (and reviewing) to you ;)! ), Exploded Pen (thank you… I think you're definitely going to enjoy Chapter 16… lots and lots of Malcolm ;)!), Luna (thank you, please let me know what you think about Chapter 13!), Maraschino (thank you… we're definitely going to get to the Malcolm introspection thing later on!), Trips Girl (wow, thanks! And I think that's exactly how felines see the human race – giant cat toys and occasional can-openers… gotta love cats ;)!), dani-lyn (I'm glad you like it, please keep telling me what you think!)

Please keep the reviews coming!

-----------------------

Chapter 13

T'Pol leaned back in her desk chair, steepling her fingers as she eyed the screen in front of her. A human, she knew, would have sighed in frustration or drummed their fingers on the armrest of the chair. Commander Archer also tended to start pacing at times, an illogical reaction that served no obvious purpose. T'Pol had never understood the exact meaning of the expression "letting off steam".

At the moment, however, she was coming close to the Vulcan equivalent of fidgeting. It was now two weeks ago since she had first started her investigations, but she had learned hardly anything that had been of use. More often than not, the files she found in the Joint Forces archive were classified or had been deleted altogether, a brief code in the back-up system announcing that the data had been irreversibly lost and could not be retrieved. Over the years, Joint Forces Command seemed to have "lost" entire sections of their data archive.

T'Pol knew she was taking a risk, hacking into classified sections that required a password even of the high-ranking Command staff. And from the little she had found out, she knew that she needed to be extremely careful about her next steps. This was not a matter concerning one or two persons in JF Command. From what she had gained, there were more than a dozen people involved, and none of them ranking lower than captain in retirement. Every file that she did open revealed a little more, showed her a brief glimpse of something she was not sure she wanted to see. T'Pol was, as humans would have said, walking on shaky ground.

But, as she kept telling herself, it would have been premature to jump to any conclusions yet. That was not how a Vulcan scientist approached any research, let alone one of such magnitude. Yes, there had been that file listing a number of weapon blue prints that had obviously been translated from an alien language into English. There had been a number of transmission that had gone back and forth between Earth and... some unknown destination, transmissions that had been sent and received more than fifty, sixty years ago. And it was clear that whoever had sent those messages had been trying to keep it a secret.

But the data was not sufficient to draw any logical conclusions. Speculation had no place in scientific research, and T'Pol refused to indulge in such illogical means. No matter how... unsettling her findings might be, she was going to collect data until she was able to form a verifiable theory, nothing more. She was not going to guess. All the more so since guessing might have led her to even more unsettling results.

A soft chime came from the intercom on her desk, and T'Pol activated the connection.

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry if I'm disturbing you, Captain," Ensign Sato's voice came from the speaker. "There's a call for you from Earth. Personal channels."

T'Pol noticed the slight stress the communications officer put on the last two words. "Indeed," she said. "Thank you, Ensign. Please put it through to my quarters."

"Yes, ma'am." The ensign hesitated, then added: "Could you tell her that Hoshi says to say hello?"

T'Pol's eyebrow twitched, but she refrained from commenting on Sato's cryptic request. "Of course, Ensign. T'Pol out."

A small green light flashed up at the bottom of her screen, announcing that the call was being redirected to her quarters. T'Pol raised an eyebrow when she saw the call code that was displayed next to the blinking signal. She opened the connection, and the face of an elderly human woman appeared on the screen. T'Pol tilted her head as a way of greeting.

"Mrs. Tucker, I presume? I am Captain T'Pol."

The woman smiled, rather nervously. "Pleased to meet ya. I... I hope I'm not disturbin' you?"

"Of course not," T'Pol said, wondering why humans always seemed to worry about "disturbing" her in some way or other. "I am pleased to meet you, too. I assume you are calling about the children?"

"Yes." She smiled. "I jus' wanted to let you know that they're here, an' that everythin' went okay. Captain T'Kar dropped them off at the spaceport, and Charles and I picked them up the night before last. The port authorities didn't give us any trouble."

T'Pol allowed herself a brief surge of relief. "That is good to hear."

"I was plannin' to call you yesterday, but then we were so busy gettin' the kids settled that I jus' forgot about it," Mrs. Tucker admitted with a slightly embarrassed smile.

"It is of no consequence," T'Pol said. "I am sure the children demanded your full attention."

The blond woman nodded. "They were a little shy at first, of course, but they're wonderful kids. I can't believe Sara is only nine. She seems a lot older to me at times, the way she takes care of her little brother."

T'Pol was surprised to hear her own thoughts coming from the human woman. "The circumstances she grew up in are very different from those of her human peers," she said. "I do not know if Mr. Tucker has informed you about his past..."

A flicker of sadness crossed Mrs. Tucker's face. "No, we didn't have much time to talk. But I guess I can imagine." She paused. "Any news how they're doin'?"

T'Pol noticed the faint trepidation in the other woman's voice. For a human, Mrs. Tucker was hiding it admirably well.

"We cannot communicate with them at the moment," she said. "But we are following their signature with our scanners. There seem to have been no interruptions of their journey so far. Lieutenant Reed has installed a tracking device so that we can tell immediately if they have slowed down or encountered any other ships."

Mrs. Tucker nodded. "How long until you can call them?"

"If they continue at this speed, it should be another 5.8 days until they enter orbit," T'Pol said. "We will try to contact them as soon as they have reached their destination."

"When you call them..." She hesitated. "Would you tell Trip that Sara an' Sammy are safe with us?"

T'Pol tilted her head. "Of course."

Mrs. Tucker brushed back a stray lock of her gray-blond hair. "Any word from those people at JF Command?" she asked. "They give you any trouble?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow, remembering her short and unpleasant conversation with Admiral Singer. "Not exactly. I contacted them shortly after your son and Lieutenant Reed had left, and informed them about the escape. They were not... pleased, but did not doubt my presentation of the facts."

She left out the part when Singer had accused her of being deliberately lax about security measures and threatened to send JF ships to search the area. There was no logical reason to upset Tucker's parents when all odds suggested that the escape plan was going to work.

Suddenly another voice came over the connection. "Who are you talking to, Susan? Are you talking to Daddy and Malcolmreed?"

Mrs. Tucker smiled and briefly disappeared from the screen, then emerged again with Tucker's little son in her arms. The child wrapped his arms around her neck.

"Can I talk to Daddy, Susan?"

The woman smiled at him. "No, Sammy, I'm afraid we can't talk to your dad right now. But he and Malcolm are doin' fine. Captain T'Pol here told me so."

Sammy glanced shyly at the screen. "Where's my Daddy?" he asked. "Is he gonna come back soon?"

"I don't know," Mrs. Tucker answered. "But I'm sure he misses you and thinks of you and Sara every day."

The child nodded earnestly. "I miss him, too." He held up a sheet of paper so T'Pol could see it. "I'm doing my lines every day, and Sara says I'm getting better. Can you tell Daddy she said so?"

"I will tell him," T'Pol answered. "And I believe Ensign Sato wants you to know that she 'says hello'."

Mrs. Tucker smiled. "Thank you. The kids are doin' great with those learnin' programs she sent. We appreciate her help."

"Ensign Sato will be pleased to hear that. She assisted Mr. Tucker and the children with their reading lessons while they were on Enterprise."

"She assisted Trip..." Mrs. Tucker broke off. "Oh. Of course. He wouldn't..."

T'Pol realized that up until now, the human woman had not become aware of the fact that her son had never learned to read. Fortunately, Sammy chose that moment to jump back in on the conversation, tugging at Mrs. Tucker's sleeve.

"Can I have another piece of Pea Can Pie, Susan? I'm hungry."

"Sure, sweetie." She set the child down. "Go get yourself a plate, I'll be with you in a minute."

She watched as he left, then turned back to the screen. "He's a great kid. They both are. I suppose we should try an' get them to talk English instead of usin' the translator, but we thought the first few days it might be easier for them that way."

"I agree," T'Pol said. "Mr. Tucker will be relieved to hear that his children are well taken care of. He feels very... protective about them."

"I know," Mrs. Tucker said quietly. "And I'm sure he misses them terribly. I know they're missin' him."

T'Pol said nothing, having learned from experience that humans sometimes objected to Vulcan logic, but were hardly offended if you met their emotions with a respectful silence.

Mrs. Tucker, at least, did not seem offended at all. She smiled. "Well, thank you for takin' the time to talk to me, Captain. It's good to hear that Trip and Lieutenant Reed are alright." She glanced at something outside the visual range of the screen. "I'd better get goin' before Sammy cuts himself with that knife."

"Of course." T'Pol raised a hand in the Vulcan greeting. "Live long and prosper."

To her surprise, Mrs. Tucker mirrored the gesture without any visible effort. "Thank you, Captain. I hope we'll be hearin' from you soon."

T'Pol inclined her head in acknowledgement and the human woman smiled, reaching out to cut the connection. A second later, her image was replaced by the file T'Pol had been studying before Mrs. Tucker had contacted her.

It was strange, T'Pol thought, that her conversation with Tucker's mother should have any effect on her composure, but it did. Seeing the hope in the human woman's eyes when she talked about her son had been... disconcerting. For want of a better word. T'Pol was not used to dealing with that sort of emotion. There was no way she could have told Mrs. Tucker about any of the things she had found in the Joint Forces Archive. If only half of those files had anything to do with Admiral Singer's orders, then it was going to be a long time until Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker could hope to return to Earth.

T'Pol closed her eyes, initiating a brief mental exercise to bring her thoughts back into order. She had been neglecting her meditating hours ever since Admiral Singer had called her, and the strain was beginning to show. Truth was that she was worried. The crew had asked questions about Lieutenant Reed's disappearance, and for the first time T'Pol had been forced to lie to them, saying that the Lieutenant had left on another classified mission. They realized, of course, that she was not telling them what was really going on, but there was nothing she could do about it. T'Pol did not want any more of her crew involved. So far, only Ensign Sato and Commanders Archer and Soval knew the details, and T'Pol realized that they were risking their careers by keeping the true circumstances of Lieutenant Reed's departure a secret.

The most unsettling thing was that she did not know what exactly she was dealing with. All the facts she had learned so far seemed like small stones that belonged to the same mosaic, but there was no logical, scientific way of reconstructing the complete picture. And she needed to understand if she wanted to find a way to help Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker.

T'Pol returned her attention to the screen and the latest file she had found in the archive. It was a list of names and short annotations, written in a rather old-fashioned human code that had been out of use for quite a while. She activated a decoding program, and her eyebrow climbed higher when she saw what exactly was listed in the file. The names did not belong to people but to places, places on Earth that sounded vaguely familiar. To each of the names someone had added a complete set of coordinates, and a brief description of the surrounding area.

T'Pol scrolled to the top of the file, and her eyes narrowed. The names and coordinates had been sent thirty-eight years ago, from a terminal located at what was now the Joint Forces Headquarters. Then, of course, it had only been a military base where the humans gathered their forces to fight the Orion raiders. The transmission frequency, however, indicated that the receiver of the message had certainly not been human. Or Vulcan, for that matter. At that time, first contact between their two people had not yet been established, so it could not have been a Vulcan ship hiding somewhere in the Sol system, waiting for this transmission to arrive. But someone had received it, that much was clear.

T'Pol took a closer look at the names mentioned in the file. Something about them was definitely familiar, something she could not quite put her finger on. Illogical, a stern voice spoke up at the back of her mind. Hunches are a human myth, and they are _illogical._

But for once, T'Pol ignored logic, concentrating on that sense of familiarity. She knew she had seen those names listed somewhere else, in another file...

"Ensign Sato to the Captain."

T'Pol struggled to keep the frustration out of her tone. "Yes, Ensign?"

"Captain." Sato's voice was strained. "I need you to come to the situation room, ma'am. It's urgent."

"Of course, Ensign."

She cut the connection, her eyes still on the monitor as she got up. She knew she had been very close to fitting another stone into her mosaic, and maybe it was this piece which would finally give her an idea of the whole picture.

T'Pol closed the file, careful to save the decoded version in her personal archive. On leaving her quarters, she found her thoughts returning to her conversation with Admiral Singer. It was true, he had not been pleased... but there was more to it. T'Pol did not consider herself an expert in reading human emotions, but she believed that it hadn't only been anger in the Admiral's eyes when he learned of Reed's "escape". It had been fear. Even the first time when Singer had called, ordering her to keep the Lieutenant in the brig until he could be "treated" back at JF Headquarters, the Admiral had seemed rather nervous, in contrast to his usual complacent self. It was not a reassuring thought. T'Pol knew that fear held a great power over the human mind, and not in a good way.

When she entered the situation room, T'Pol was surprised to find Soval and Archer standing next to Ensign Sato, studying a monitor on the wall.

"You wanted to see me, Ensign?" she asked. The three officers turned around.

"Captain." The worry was evident on Sato's face. "You'd better take a look at this, ma'am."

T'Pol stepped closer. The screen showed the familiar image, a thin red line making its way in between the sprinkled stars. Close to the small red mark that represented Shuttlepod I, however, there was another warp signature, steadily approaching the shuttle's position.

"I noticed that something was interfering with the data from the tracking device," Sato said. "Commander Archer was able to correct the distortion and separate the signatures. Someone's pursuing them, Captain."

T'Pol turned to Soval who stood with his hands clasped behind his back. "Have you been able to identify the signature, Commander?"

"The analysis is still running, Captain." He stepped to a monitor next to the one showing Shuttlepod I and called up a list of data. "At their present speed, however, the unknown ship will have reached the shuttle in approximately 30.56 minutes."

T'Pol noticed the irritation on the humans' faces, and surmised that Archer and Sato were - yet again - taking offence at Commander Soval's "indifferent" manner. The Commander had been serving with humans for more than twenty years, but his rigid logic and emotionless demeanor still tended to cause a certain friction among the senior staff.

She nodded at the Commander, continuing quickly before the human officers could express their feelings.

"How long ago did you detect the interfering signature, Ensign?"

"I've been checking the readings every three hours, and it wasn't there the last time I looked. They must have dropped out of warp only a short while before."

"Captain." Soval's eyes were still fixed on the monitor. "The analysis is complete." He turned around, and T'Pol saw the slightest flicker of unease in his eyes, although she knew that neither Archer nor Sato would have noticed.

"It seems that the unknown vessel belongs to the Joint Forces."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	15. Chapter 14

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for letting me know what you think!

JadziaKathryn (thank you, I hope the waiting wasn't too bad ;)... and yes, you're certainly going to get more information on the conspiracy), firebirdgirl (well, we'll see about Enterprise getting there... happy reading ;)!), Emiliana Keladry (No, probably not... thank you for reviewing!), RoaringMice (exactly ;) ), Salhawke (thank you! I loved both of your stories, wish there were sequels to them (hinthint) ;)... Wow, you went to see DK, wish I could've been there),

stage manager (sorry about the cliffie... hey, you know me, I can't help it ;) ), Exploded Pen (how was the surprise? You like it ;)?), Trips Girl (actually you're quite right about someone helping them... BTW, -my- cat helped me write this story just by being there as a model for Malcolm's character ;) ), Luna (thank you - you'll learn more about Singer and the rest of the gang in one of the chapters to come... can't quite remember at the moment, but I think it's Chapter 17), Maraschino (hope I didn't leave you hanging for too long ;)...), Parisfan ( yes, I guess it would have been hard for Susan, with all those memories coming back... and I agree with you about Trip and Deborah)

Chapter 14

Malcolm pulled the blanket over his shoulders, trying to find a comfortable position on the narrow bench. Thinking of his - comparatively - large bed back on Enterprise, he let out a small sigh. Sleeping on a hard, cramped cot wasn't the only thing that was beginning to get on his nerves. Truth be told, after two weeks of sharing thirteen square meters of living space Malcolm wouldn't have cared if he never saw another shuttle in his entire life. Eating heated-up food rations had lost its novelty after a few days, and no matter how sophisticated the air-recycler was supposed to be, Malcolm couldn't get rid of the impression that the shuttle was beginning to smell. Several times (and mostly for lack of anything better to do), Trip and he had scrubbed down the entire pod, washed the dirty laundry in the shuttle's small shower stall and hung it up to dry, but the stale, unpleasant smell remained. Malcolm thanked all the gods there were that this was a Type-B shuttle, not Type-A, which didn't have any bathroom or toilet facilities. He tried not to think of how a Type-A shuttle might look like after two people had lived in it for several weeks.

Malcolm had given up wearing his uniform in the second week, after finding that it was rather difficult to wash. It wasn't his usual style to wear civilian clothes while technically on duty, but these days, Malcolm couldn't really bring himself to care about Starfleet protocol. _Anything_ that brought even the slightest change was rather welcome at the moment.

All circumstances considered, however, they could have been doing worse. There had been surprisingly few disagreements (if it had been Hoshi, Malcolm doubted they would have survived the first week without killing each other), and no arguments at all. Malcolm knew he could not have started one even if he had wanted to. Trip seemed to find it natural that things were done Malcolm's way, or at least saw no reason to start a discussion. There were times when Malcolm almost wished they could bicker a little; it would help vent some of the pent-up energy and might even make for a fun few hours. For some reason, Trip seemed like the ideal person to have a long, entertaining discussion with. But maybe he was expecting too much too early. After all, it was only a few months ago that Trip had been insisting on still calling him "sir".

Malcolm rolled onto his back and glanced over at the other bunk. As he had expected, Trip was still awake and staring at his padd with a concentrated frown. A writing pad lay in front of him on the bunk, and from time to time Trip propped himself up on one elbow in order to write down another word after quietly reading it to himself. The pencil made a soft scraping noise on the paper.

When he became aware of Malcolm's eyes on him, Trip lowered his padd. "Did I wake you up?"

Malcolm shook his head. "I wasn't sleeping anyway." He sat up, his back feeling as though it had been turned into a pretzel by that rack passing for a shuttle bunk. "Whoever designed these things should try sleeping on them himself. They're worse than the beds back at the Vulcan school."

Trip smiled slightly, then sobered again. "You went to a Vulcan school?"

"Yes, I..." Malcolm trailed off. He felt uncomfortable, talking about himself winning the scholarship. "It was decided after my last year of primary school that I could start at the San Francisco _Kahr'nat_, a Vulcan boarding school where all the diplomat children go."

"You said you were from England," Trip said. "Isn't San Francisco a city in the USA?"

The way Trip said the names, Malcolm realized that to him, those places were only alien sounds strung together in a word, facts he had picked up in one of Hoshi's geography lessons. There was nothing he associated with them.

"That's right," Malcolm said. "I got quite the culture shock when I first came to San Francisco." He smiled. "I remember I sometimes found the Americans to be more alien than the Vulcans back at school."

"And your family?" Trip asked - rather carefully, as if he were afraid of crossing a line if he inquired further. "Didn't they miss you?"

Malcolm lowered his eyes. He never spoke of his family unless he had to. Except for Archer and T'Pol, no one on Enterprise knew that he had grown up in a foster residence. It was none of their business, and Malcolm hated the awkwardness that always accompanied those occasions when he was forced to talk about his "unhappy" childhood. People never failed to give him that _look_, their thoughts written on their faces: _Oh well, the poor guy. But then, it explains a lot of things._

"I didn't mean to-" Trip began, but Malcolm shook his head. So maybe his past was something he didn't like to talk about, but for some reason he didn't feel the same reluctance with Trip. In a way, he felt almost obliged to tell him, after all the things the man had confided in him.

"It's alright," he said. "It's just that... it wasn't that easy, you know. My mother..." He took a deep breath. "She disappeared when I was two years old. She was visiting her sister in Kuantan when the Orions Raided Malaysia. My father never found out what had happened to her. If she had been Lost, or killed. She was seven months pregnant at the time. My father... just couldn't cope with the fact that she was gone. Not dead, you know; I think if she had died he could have dealt with it, eventually. But she was just gone, and he couldn't understand that. He started to drink when I was three. I believe it wasn't so bad at first, but then he quit his job at the Royal Navy Headquarters, and it got a lot worse after that. He... he'd just drink and drink until he started to cry, and then he'd drink some more until he passed out. He never hurt me or anything, but... I was only three, you see, and couldn't understand what was going on. I was just so afraid when he got like that. Then..."

Malcolm trailed off. That was one thing he couldn't talk about, not even to Trip. Yes, there was a perfectly good explanation for what had happened to his father, why he had lost control in such a way. Sometimes Malcolm even believed that he understood. That he could, eventually, forgive him. But in a less rational part of his mind he knew that even if he told himself that he bore no grudge against his father, he would never forget those three rainy days in November, that feeling of abandonment and terror forced on a child too young to understand. A feeling that would still surface in his nightmares from time to time, and leave him shaking and unable to go back to sleep. Maybe that was the worst part, the way those memories would sneak up and pounce on him when he expected it the least.

"When I was four, they decided that my father was no longer fit to be my guardian. The doctors sent him to a rehabilitation center where he died a few years later. Suicide."

"And you?" Trip asked. "Did you have any relatives that could take you in?"

Malcolm thought of his grandparents, who had wanted nothing to do with the small, shy boy their son-in-law was unable to take care of.

"No," he said. "I lived in a foster home until I went away to school."

Trip remained silent for a while. "You must hate him," he said then, quietly, but it still startled Malcolm. Trip's words hit closer to home than he cared to admit.

"No," he said quickly. "No, I don't hate him. Not anymore. I... I realize that he was sick. He couldn't help himself."

Trip said nothing, but Malcolm saw in his eyes that he realized this wasn't quite the truth. Stuart Reed had been sick because he had wanted to be sick enough to forget about everything. Including his son.

"I..." He hesitated. "When I was a boy, I always wondered what had become of my mother. And my brother or sister. When I met you, I realized that they might still be alive and..." He broke off.

"And that they're slaves," Trip finished quietly. "Like I used to be."

Malcolm nodded, unable to meet the other man's eyes. "I... I can't remember my mother, and I've never met my brother or sister," he said. "But they're my family. And there's nothing I can do." He shook his head. "It's just... sometimes I feel so helpless."

"I know what you mean."

Malcolm raised his eyes. Coming from anyone else, it would have been a platitude, something people said because they needed a phrase to fill the awkward silence. But with Trip it was different. Trip did know what it meant to feel helpless, and how it felt if there was nothing you could do to protect your family.

Malcolm nodded slowly. "Yes," he said. "I know you do."

They sat in silence for a while, Malcolm watching the stars outside and letting his thoughts drift. It was a long time since he had talked to anyone about his family. And maybe the first time he had done so without hearing the words "I'm sorry" at some point, that expression of helplessness people always used when confronted with something they didn't understand. But unlike everybody else, Trip did understand. He had been out there himself, and knew that "I'm sorry" wouldn't help Mary Reed and her son or daughter. If they were still alive.

"Are you alright?"

Malcolm looked back at Trip, and saw that the other man was watching him. "Yes," he said and smiled slightly. "I'm fine. Just thinking about things."

Trip held his gaze for another moment, then leaned back against the wall and returned his attention to his padd. Malcolm listened to the sound of Trip's pencil scratching on the paper for a while, and had just decided to dig under the bench for his novel when a soft bleeping came from the front of the shuttle.

He got up, aware of Trip's eyes on him as he walked over to the helm.

"Another asteroid field?"

"No," Malcolm answered, frowning down at the signature on the scanner's display. "It seems that there's a ship approaching our position."

There was a soft rustling as Trip laid his writing pad aside and came to join him at the helm. "Do you know what kind of ship?"

"No," Malcolm said. "I'm still scanning their signature. It's-"

He stopped in mid-sentence when the monitor in front of him changed, a small identification label replacing the former image. However, it was not the "Unknown Alien Vessel" Malcolm had expected.

"What is it?" Trip stared at him. "Are they-"

"It's the Joint Forces," Malcolm said, almost stumbling as he went for the helm seat. "A scout vessel. They're coming for us."

Trip asked no further questions, sitting down in the seat behind the pilot chair. His face was pale.

"We'll have to try and outrun them," Malcolm said. He knew that they didn't have a chance; even the smallest scout ship could go ten times as fast as their shuttle. But he wasn't going to sit quietly and wait for them to activate their tractor beam. "They're still several thousand kilometers away. If we-"

Another beep from the console behind him interrupted him. He glanced quickly over his shoulder. "They're hailing us."

Trip stared at the flashing light on the control board. "Shouldn't we answer their call?"

Malcolm shook his head, powering up the shuttle's engines to their full capacity. "That'd only give them time."

He accelerated the pod to maximum speed, and ignored the red flashing that indicated they were coming dangerously close to a system overload. On the display in front of him, the scout vessel was picking up speed and closing in on the small blue dot that represented the shuttle.

Malcolm's hands were sweaty, and the controls felt slippery under his fingers. They were holding speed, but barely. It wouldn't be long until the shuttle's engines were going to give in to the strain.

"Trip," he said, not daring to take his eyes off the console.

"Yes?" Trip's voice was strained, but steady enough.

"There's a storage compartment in the rear, right next to your bunk," Malcolm said. "Inside there's an equipment box with two phase pistols. You need to-"

The shuttle shook and Malcolm had to grab the console to stay in his seat. "Bloody hell!"

The scout vessel fired again, missing this time. Malcolm saw the thin orange phaser beam whizzing past outside and swerved to avoid their next shot which followed a second later.

Glancing over his shoulder, he saw that Trip had found the weapons.

"You need to insert the power cells!" he shouted, holding onto his seat when another beam hit the shuttle. "They're in the-"

"I've got them!"

Malcolm saw Trip snap the weapons shut, and a moment later the display next to him exploded in a burst of flames, filling the shuttle with the searing stink of charred plastic.

Trip was at his side in a single stride.

"Are you alright?"

Malcolm nodded, taking one of the phase pistols. He gripped it hard so it wouldn't slip out of his sweaty fingers. _No use_, he thought. It was going to be two men against a ship full of trained soldiers. But at the same time he wanted to be armed when they encountered the enemy. Security rule number one, and he wasn't going to ignore it now, of all times.

"There's a fire extinguisher in the back," he said. "If you..."

Smoke got in his throat and he coughed, frantically waving his free hand to clear the air in front of his eyes. Through the smoke he saw Trip stumbling into the back, phase pistol gripped tightly in his hand. For one second he wondered if Trip had ever fired a weapon in his life, then his attention was diverted by another bleep from the comm console.

Malcolm brought his fist down hard on the controls, shutting down the noise. The engines were creaking with the strain, a shrill alarm announcing the impending overload. With trembling fingers, Malcolm diverted power to the hull plating, realizing that it wasn't going to be any use. Nothing he did now was going to be of any use.

The smoke was getting thicker, and Malcolm could hardly see anything anymore except for the various flashing lights that announced the damage they had taken. Suddenly Trip was back, extinguishing the flames with a white cloud of foam. At the same time another display exploded, filling the air with more heat and smoke.

"There's another extinguisher... in the rear compartment," Malcolm coughed. "We... need to..."

Something on the console in front of him caught his attention, and Malcolm raised a hand to wipe his tearing eyes. Another display had lit up... was flashing, a bright, orange color...

"Get away from there!"

Using both hands, Malcolm pushed Trip as hard as he could. Trip stumbled and fell against one of the benches, and a second later the console behind Malcolm exploded, lifting him off his feet and hurling him through the air.

It was as if someone had suddenly slowed down the wild flurry of the last ten minutes, allowing Malcolm to experience his fall in slow motion. He saw pieces of burning metal fly past him, saw Trip's sooty face and eyes that were wide with terror, and his own hands, flailing through empty space as he fell. Then, for a brief moment, Malcolm got a glimpse of the deck he was going to hit a split second later. He was surprised to find that there was no pain at all.

* * *

The second Malcolm hit the floor, Trip was sure that he was dead. There was a dull crack and Malcolm immediately went limp, giving no cry of pain, not even a small whimper. Trip scrambled over to where he had fallen, ignoring the burning helm and the pain in his knee, which had hit the bench when Malcolm had pushed him.

Malcolm lay on the deck in a crumpled heap, his left arm bent at an unnatural angle. There was a puddle of blood forming around his head, soaking his dark hair. His face was gray, almost white.

Trip's hands shook so hard that he could hardly feel the pulse. He had to try twice before he finally detected a weak throbbing beneath his fingertips, faint but still there. He checked again to make sure he wasn't mistaken, closing his eyes in relief when he found that he wasn't. Malcolm was alive. Badly hurt, but still alive.

Very carefully, he ran a finger over the nape of Malcolm's neck, dreading to find a break in the bone. He knew that a person could still live if their neck was broken; Kher'lan back at the farm had lived another hour after he had fallen off the roof while changing broken tiles. Malcolm's neck, however, was intact, even though his skin felt clammy and cold.

Trip threw a quick glance around. The console in the front was still burning, the flickering flames the only thing he could see through the billows of black smoke. Smoke that was going to choke them if he didn't do something soon.

Forcing his hands to remain steady, Trip tore a piece of fabric out of his tee-shirt and wet it with water from an open bottle. After he had secured the makeshift mask at the back of his head, he grabbed the fire extinguisher which he had dropped earlier and ventured forward into the black cloud that surrounded the helm. Smoke wafted into his face, and his eyes stung as if they had been splashed with acid. He could hardly make out the fire anymore, grabbing the extinguisher with both hands and allowing the white foam to spray everywhere. A loud hissing told him that he had found what he was looking for. Trip needed all his strength to keep the jet of foam steady. His protection mask had slipped, forcing him to inhale the unfiltered smoke. A light, floating feeling took possession of his senses, and for a terrible second he was sure he was going to pass out. His grip on the extinguisher slackened but there was nothing he could do about it, his fingers having lost their ability to grasp things, and he was floating, his view narrowing down to a black tunnel that seemed to lead into nowhere...

A shudder ran through the shuttle and brought him back. The helm was a white mess, foam dripping off the controls and sizzling on the charred displays. Slowly, the smoke cleared away, and Trip saw that the stars outside the front window were no longer moving. The pod had come to a halt.

He set the fire extinguisher down. His mouth still tasted of the smoke he had inhaled, and for a moment Trip thought he was going to be sick. Resting his hands on his knees, he took a few deep breaths of clean air and waited for the feeling to pass. When he felt safe to move again, he stumbled to the back of the shuttle, remembering the box with medical equipment that was stored away under one of the benches. Malcolm had shown it to him on the first day of their journey when he had explained about the shuttle's basic functions and equipment.

"I do hope we won't need it, though," he had said, shoving it back under the bunk. "It's just in case."

Trip pulled out the small box and opened the lid. A feeling of despair took hold of him when he saw the closely printed labels that came with the numerous injection devices. He supposed that, if given enough time, he would be able to read and understand at least a few of them, but that would not do. Malcolm needed his help now.

Trip decided not to waste any precious minutes trying to decipher the injectors' labels and grabbed several rolls of gauze bandages instead. He had applied more than a few bandages in the past, and knew enough of the basics not to hurt Malcolm when he tended to the injury.

Kneeling down next to the unconscious man, Trip felt a flutter of panic at the back of his throat. The puddle around Malcolm's head was growing at an alarming speed, forming a halo of dark red blood on the deck. Malcolm's lips had taken on a pale blue tinge, and even though Trip didn't know the medical implications he realized that this couldn't mean any good. If Malcolm lost any more blood, his chances of survival were going to be very slim.

Carefully, Trip slid a hand under Malcolm's shoulder and rolled him over so he came to lie on his side. Malcolm's hair was dripping, and it took Trip a moment until he spotted the wound between the dark strands. Blood was welling from inside the red gap, preventing a closer look at the injury. Trip applied one of the gauze pads he had found among the medical equipment, and added another one when a dark red spot appeared on the first pad only seconds after he had pressed it against the wound. Holding the pads firmly in place, he wrapped the bandage around Malcolm's head, careful not to jostle him any more than absolutely necessary. Trip wasn't so sure if moving him at all had been a good idea, but the blood flow needed to be stopped or Malcolm would bleed to death right here on the shuttle floor.

When he was done, Trip carefully lowered Malcolm back onto the floor and sat back on his heels. His stomach was still churning, and he had to grit his teeth to keep his rising panic in check. He had no idea what he was going to do, how Malcolm expected him to handle the situation. There was no way he could start the shuttle again, not with the helm console lying scattered all over the deck. Not to mention the fact that he had never piloted any kind of vessel before, let alone a space shuttle.

Suddenly another tremor ran through the pod, forcing him to grab onto a nearby bench so as not to lose his balance. This time, however, the tremor would not subside but intensified instead, as if someone had tied a rope to the shuttle and was jerking it with all their might. Trip threw a frantic look around, trying to detect the source of the strange shaking. Not that he would be able to do anything about it, but if another console was going to explode into his face then he at least wanted to know before it happened. A second later, however, he realized that the tremor was not being caused by something within the pod. There was a strange blue light outside the front window, and Trip noticed that the shuttle was moving again... or rather being moved, pulled upwards by an unknown source of power.

So the scout ship was taking them aboard. Trip clenched his hands to fists, forcing himself to stay calm and think. Malcolm was hurt and badly so, possibly dying. And it was he who was going to have to deal with these people.

He crouched down on the floor next to the unconscious man. There was no way these people were going to help Malcolm, not if they were presented with the clean and easy possibility of letting Lieutenant Reed die in a freak accident. This was exactly the sort of situation they were hoping for, and maybe the reason why they had fired on the shuttle in the first place.

No, the Joint Forces weren't going to help Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. But maybe - and Trip realized that it was a very small maybe - they were going to help Charles Tucker III.

Again, a shudder ran through the shuttle, and Trip saw that the stars outside had been replaced by the gray interior of a hangar bay. A minute or two passed in silence, and Trip waited. Finally, he heard the sounds of voices outside, steps approaching the shuttle. He got to his feet.

Someone barked an order outside, and a second later the hatch sprang open, two armed security guards in dark green uniforms pointing their weapons at him. Slowly, Trip raised his hands to show them that he was unarmed. One of the guards nodded at someone on his right, and another man in uniform stepped in front of the open hatch, the insignia on his shoulder indicating that he belonged to the senior crew. The guards took a step backwards as the tall man approached the shuttle.

"Lieutenant Malcolm Reed?" he asked.

Trip hesitated, but only for a second. Then he nodded. "Yes," he said. "That's me."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	16. Chapter 15

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thank you for reviewing!

The Libran Iniquity ( remember our anti-discrimination policy? I'll just torture both of them ;-) ), RoaringMice (nice to hear I was able to surprise you... please keep reviewing!), Exploded Pen (...and even more Malcolm in the next one, although this chapter deals mostly with Trip, I'm afraid...), Gabi (dankeschön für deine netten Reviews, und das neue Chapter sitzt schon in deiner Inbox!), stage manager (wow, thank you... wouldn't want to give you a heart attack, though... sorry about the cliffies ;-)!), Luna (I guess that's what he's hoping to do... but it could go very very wrong -eg-), firebirdgirl (well, I'd love to hear what you think about this chapter... Happy reading!), Emiliana Keladry (... yes, or at least buy him some time... thank you for reviewing!), Virgo (thank you! Yeah... poor Trip, maybe he should've thought twice before acting on his idea...), Maraschino (thanks! I don't think so, but it's an interesting idea), KaliedescopeCat (great to know you're still reading... please keep telling me what you think!), Tata (wow, sounds like you had a great time! Oh yes, the boys got themselves into trouble again... I guess we all saw that one coming ;-) ), Trips Girl ("Amazing" sounds great! Please let me know how you (and the cats) liked the next chapter ;-)!), JadziaKathryn (well... you'll definitely find out more about the JF and Trip in this chapter!), JennMel (...let's hope so, for the sake of our poor boys :-)... )

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Chapter 15

Captain Robert Patricks of the Joint Forces scoutship _Wildfire_ was not a politics man. He never wasted any words, and didn't claim to understand what was going on in the minds of people who enjoyed holding speeches in front of a large audience. In his humble opinion, a penchant for doing so only proved that the person in question was dealing with a rather severe personality problem.

Unfortunately, though, there were a few aspects to politics that had nothing to do with holding speeches, and it was these aspects which he had somehow managed to get himself involved in.

As always, Command's orders had been short, to the point, and had contained as little information as possible: Any JF vessel that came across a Starfleet shuttle bearing the identification _NX-01 Enterprise_ was to arrest its crew and report to Joint Forces Command at once.

God only knew what Command would want with those Fleeters. Patricks didn't know and until not too long ago he hadn't cared, either. Now, however, sitting in his small office and staring at the Joint Forces logo on his desk screen, he wasn't so sure if he could afford to ignore politics this time. His conversation with the Admiral had confirmed Patricks' suspicion; Command's orders to arrest the two Fleeters did concern politics, and not the speech-holding sort either. No, this seemed to be about a different sort of politics entirely. The nasty sort.

Singer had been more than relieved to hear about Lieutenant Reed's arrest, the way his craggy face had relaxed at the news speaking louder than his few words. The Admiral had been relieved, and at the same time nervous to give away any more information. In fact, Singer had been nervous enough to get angry when Patricks had asked why exactly this was so important to Command.

The Captain tapped a pen against his palm, remembering the thinly veiled threat in the Admiral's answer.

"You're a capable man, Robert, and I know I can trust you with this. I never doubted your ability to command a ship like the Wildfire, and that's exactly what I told Admiral Selin after your court martial." Singer had paused, his eyes intent on Patricks' face. "You realize, Robert, that there are people who wanted to withdraw your captain's license back then. Still do, as a matter of fact. But I was never one of them."

Patricks didn't need the help of his communications officer to translate Singer's message: _Don't ask any questions, or I'll make sure those skeletons in your closet are not only dragged out for everyone to see. I'll make sure they end your career before you even get the chance to say "blackmail"._

Singer knew he had him in the palm of his hand. And here he was, left with orders that made no sense whatsoever. The Admiral, of course, had refused to answer any of his questions.

"The matter is closed, Robert. I expect your report in two hours." _Or else that captain's certificate of yours will be worth crap before you know it. Trust me, Robert. You'll be surprised._

This, Patricks supposed, was another part of politics: threatening people with destroying their reputation, their very life, without ever losing that amicable smile. Patricks found that he didn't only dislike politics; he hated them.

But it was no use. That Fleeter down in the brig - Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, a skinny blond man whose quiet demeanor wasn't quite what you expected of your usual security thug - had somehow managed to get himself into one hell of a fix, and Patricks wasn't going to risk his career to help him out. Especially not if what Singer said was true, and Reed was in the possession of information that could do irreparable damage to the whole of JF Command. Patricks might not understand a lot about the finer workings of politics, but he sure as hell understood enough to know when to keep his ass out of trouble. And if he had only two hours to do so, then he might as well get started.

The Captain threw the pen onto his desk and reached for the comm.

"Patricks to sickbay."

"Skitra here," his Vulcan CMO answered the call. "Captain, I was able to stabilize Mr. Tucker's condition. I am fairly certain that he will survive."

Patricks frowned, momentarily confused. Then he realized that Skitra was talking about their other prisoner, one Charles Tucker III. Singer had only waved him off when Patricks had mentioned Tucker, leaving no doubt that he couldn't care less whether the man had been taken to sickbay or shoved out an airlock. It was Reed they wanted. And it was Reed that Patricks wanted to talk to Skitra about.

"That's good to hear, doctor," he said, careful to keep any impatience out of his voice. The old Vulcan doctor could get rather protective about his patients at times. "If you can spare a minute, I'd like you to come to my office. There's something we need to discuss."

"Of course, Captain. I am certain that Nurse Chang can take over for a few minutes."

"Great. See you in a minute," Patrick said, signing off before Skitra could provide him with more details about sickbay protocol.

He sighed, reaching out for his pen again. He wasn't looking forward to this conversation. Although Skitra was admittedly the best physician a small vessel like the Wildfire could ever hope for, the ancient Vulcan could be rather... trying on occasion. And Patricks was willing to bet his ship and command license that this was going to be one of those occasions. One of the things that Skitra would never understand was that sometimes you just had to keep your mouth shut, and do what you were told.

The door signal chimed, and Patricks straightened in his chair. This time, he decided, there were going to be no long discussions with the Vulcan doctor.

"Come," he called. The door slid aside, and Skitra came in. As usual, the old Vulcan was wearing his Vulcan Healer's insignia pinned to the front of his JF uniform, a habit which Patricks found slightly irritating. As though Skitra was trying to make a point of the fact that he wasn't your average Joint Forces physician.

The Captain gestured at the chair that stood on front of his desk.

"Please, take a seat."

Skitra complied, carefully straightening the chair before he sat down. "Thank you, Captain." He pulled out a padd. "My report about Mr. Tucker's condition. I apologize for giving only few details, but I had very little time to compile it."

Patricks took the padd and dutifully skimmed it through before he laid it aside. "Thank you, doctor." Seeing the doctor's eyebrows climbing dangerously close to his hairline, he hastened to add, "I will read it more thoroughly when we're finished here."

"Of course, Captain," Skitra said. "I will notify you when Mr. Tucker regains consciousness, in case you want to talk to him."

Patricks nodded, wisely keeping his mouth shut about the fact that he wasn't particularly interested in talking to Tucker at all. Singer had ordered him to see to it that the man was delivered to the JF detention center, and that was what he was going to do. End of story.

Skitra cleared his throat. "Captain, about the security detail in sickbay... I do not believe that my patient is in the condition to do any harm. I-"

Patricks cut him off. He knew what the doctor was going to say. "I know, Skitra, but I have my orders. Tucker is a prisoner, and we're going to treat him as such. I'm sorry if you feel uncomfortable about it."

Skitra said nothing, only folded his hands in his lap and gave Patricks an expressionless look. The Captain knew very well that the doctor was not pleased, but there was nothing he could do about it.

He cleared his throat. "Doctor, I need to talk to you about Lieutenant Reed."

Skitra tilted his head. "I was hoping you would say so, Captain. Prisoner or not, I do think that I should be allowed to examine him."

Patricks sighed inwardly. "I know how you feel about it, doc, but that was not what I meant." He paused, wishing Skitra wouldn't give him that emotionless, Vulcan stare of his. "I don't know if you realize why Command wants Reed taken back to Earth..."

The doctor's white eyebrows drew together. "Sir?"

Patrick turned his eyes away and studied the monitor instead. "Reed's been working as an undercover agent for JF Command. Found out about things he's not supposed to know. I'm afraid I'm not authorized to give you any details." _Not that anyone has told **me** any details_. "Admiral Singer wanted Reed to be taken to JF Headquarters to... have him treated according to Paragraph 34-A. But there's been a development." He looked back at the doctor. "Singer wants us to do the job."

Skitra was silent for a moment. Then he said: "Captain, I have taken an oath not to do harm to my patients, no matter what circumstances. What you are asking me to do-"

"Is your duty as a Joint Forces officer," Patricks interrupted sharply. "Reed is not your patient. He's a danger to all of us."

Skitra's mouth was a thin line. "I cannot inject a person with a substance that will destroy his mind. Captain, I chose it as my profession to help the sick, and use my knowledge only for the good of my patients. I-"

"No offense, doc, but lecturing me on medical ethics won't change a thing." Patricks got up, feeling the urge to slam his fist down on the table. He knew Singer would be more than happy to tear his captain's license to tiny shreds if he didn't call back in time. None of the top brass back at HQ were too fond of him, not since the incident with the Tellarite freighter. And he had less than two hours to prove that he was fit to be a captain, that he had no problems with following the chain of command.

He rested his palms on the desk, leaning forward to look at the Vulcan. "I'm giving you an order, Doctor. If you don't think you can follow it, fine. I can ask one of your med techs to do it. Reed's going to be injected with the drug one way or another, the only difference will be that I'll have to include a reprimand in your file. Think about it, doc."

Skitra had risen from his chair as well. For a moment, Patricks believed he was going to walk out on him, but the old Vulcan remained where he was. It was unsettling to read the contempt in those dark eyes, even more so since Patricks knew that the doctor had a point. But it was not for them to decide if Command's orders were acceptable or not.

Finally, Skitra spoke up again. "I have never disobeyed your orders, sir."

"I know, doctor." Patricks took a deep breath. "And I'm sorry that it had to come to this. But... I need your help here. Do you understand that?"

The Vulcan's face was a mask of stone. "I do, Captain."

_I don't think so._ Patricks knew that if Skitra had ever respected him as a commanding officer (and he wasn't so sure about that), then he had lost that respect for good. And even though his CMO's opinion really didn't matter, that cold look in the Vulcan's eyes still bothered Patricks. More than he cared to admit.

He turned away, pressing his lips together.

"Good. Meet me at the brig in fifteen minutes. And doctor..." Patricks turned to the window, not wanting to see the doctor's face at his next words. "No fuss, alright? I want this to be over as quickly and quietly as possible."

"Understood, sir."

Again there was that word, and the Captain knew perfectly well that it was just that - a word. There was no way Skitra could ever really understand his reasons for doing this.

"Dismissed."

Patricks heard the door open and close, and only when the doctor was gone did he turn around to face the empty room. He could do this. There were worse things than living with the contempt of an old, stubborn Vulcan. And maybe he could request a transfer for Skitra when this was over. Patricks made a mental note not to forget about it.

Strangely, though, as he slowly made his way to the door, the idea only served to worsen his already dark mood.

-------------------

Wildfire's brig was empty, except for one cell holding a single prisoner. When he became aware of Patricks' presence, the slender man inside the cell got up and stepped closer to the thick pane of glass that separated him from the corridor outside.

"How is Tucker, Captain?" Lieutenant Reed asked, and for some reason glanced away as he said the name. "Is he going to be alright?"

Patricks was surprised. He had expected Reed to start yelling as soon as he caught sight of him, demanding to be released or at least given access to a console so he could contact his superiors. The Lieutenant, however, seemed far from angry. His face was pale, his hands clenching to fists as he waited for Patricks' answer.

"Tucker's condition has stabilized," the Captain repeated Skitra's words. "He's going to make it."

A sigh of relief came from the man. "Can I talk to him, sir?"

Another surprise. Of all things, he had not expected Reed to acknowledge his rank. "No. Stand back, Reed, I need to talk to you."

Patricks motioned at one of the guards who had drawn to attention when the Captain came in. The man stepped closer, raising his phase pistol as he positioned himself next to the cell door.

"Try anything funny, and..."

Reed seemed to understand. Slowly, he backed away from the door, sitting down on the bench at the far end of the cell.

"Good."

Patricks pressed the opening mechanism next to the door, and indicated to the guard to follow him into the cell. Reed watched him, not moving as the two men came closer.

_Not your typical Fleeter,_ Patricks thought with a touch of irritation. This wary silence wasn't what he had expected. If the man had gotten all uppity like those exploring geeks tended to do, or had kicked up a fuss about being held against his will, it would have been easier to deal with him. Like this, however, Patricks wasn't really sure how to begin.

"I've received new orders from Admiral Singer," he said finally. "You realize why Joint Forces Command wants you to be taken back to Earth?"

Reed only stared at him, his hands clenching around the edge of the bench. His continued silence was beginning to grate on Patricks' nerves. What kind of game did that Fleeter think he was playing?

"Get up!" he bellowed, satisfied when he saw the man startle. He waited until Reed had gotten to his feet, then continued, "Answer my question. Do you know why you're here?"

Reed met his eyes. "Yes sir."

Patricks took in the man's less-than-impressive appearance, the torn tee-shirt and the sooty face and hands, and decided that this was indeed not your typical Fleeter. He couldn't imagine this man working undercover for the Joint Forces, and wondered briefly what sort of things Reed was supposed to know that could be so dangerous to JF Command.

Then he decided that it really wasn't his business.

"As I said, I've talked to the Admiral," he said in a calmer tone. "Command has decided to perform the procedure earlier than planned."

Reed swallowed. "I... I don't understand..."

Patricks clasped his hands behind his back. "Command doesn't want any more delays, Reed. My physician is on his way down here."

Reed stood completely still for a moment, then, without warning, he dodged past the two men and was out the door. Patricks had never seen anyone move so fast.

"Stop him!" he shouted at the two guards outside the cell. One of the men managed to tackle Reed, and they went down in a tangle of arms and legs. Reed struggled with desperate energy, landing a hard punch on his opponent's face before the other guards caught hold of his arms and pinned him down.

Sergeant Crowther, who was nursing a bleeding nose, got to his feet and kicked the prone man hard in the ribs, causing him to cry out in pain.

"That's enough, Sergeant," Patricks said sharply, pulling Crowther away from Reed. The Sergeant backed off, though not without a last venomous look at the Lieutenant who squirmed in the other guards' grip.

Patricks was surprised. He had not expected the Fleeter to fight back, let alone give one of his soldiers a shiner.

"Let me go!"

"Restraints," Patricks ordered. Crowther pulled out a pair of electronic handcuffs and knelt down next to Reed who struggled even harder when he saw the restraints.

"Keep his hands still!"

A second later, the handcuffs hissed shut, and the guards pulled Reed to his feet. A large bruise was forming on the man's left cheek.

"Take him back into the cell," Patrick said, turning around when the door behind him opened. Skitra came in, his eyebrows going up as he surveyed the scene.

"Captain?"

"Doctor. I'm glad you're here." Patricks watched as the guards manhandled Reed back into the cell and threw him onto the bench. "Let's get this over with."

He could feel disapproval radiating from the Vulcan as they followed the guards into the cell. Reed was sitting on the bench, two phase pistols pointed at his head. He was shaking, though Patricks couldn't tell whether it was with fear or fury. A small trickle of blood ran down the man's chin, dripping onto his shirt.

Skitra turned to the Captain, his lips pressed together. "Was that really necessary, sir?"

Patricks felt a sudden surge of anger, not so much at the remark than at the disdain he saw in the Vulcan's eyes. "You're out of line, doctor. Do what you have to, and keep your comments to yourself."

Skitra never even looked at him. Instead, he pulled a hypospray from his pocket, turning his back to the Captain as he approached Reed. The Lieutenant's eyes grew wide when he saw the hypo. Despite the weapons aimed at his head, he made as if to jump to his feet, but Sergeant Crowther caught him by the shoulder.

"Stay where you are."

Patricks expected Skitra to hesitate, but the Vulcan was as calm and controlled as always. There was no way to tell how he felt about what he was going to do.

A thin film of sweat had formed on Reed's forehead. "Please," he said in a hoarse voice. "Don't do this. Please."

The doctor raised the hypo, meaning to press it against Reed's neck, but the Lieutenant squirmed away, his eyes wild and panicked.

"NO!"

Patricks found that he couldn't bear to watch this any longer. "Keep his head still!" he snapped at Crowther. The Sergeant nodded, grabbed a handful of Reed's blond hair and yanked his head back. Reed cried out, and at the same time the doctor held the hypospray against the Lieutenant's neck, its contents emptying themselves into his bloodstream with a faint hiss. Reed drew in a deep, gasping breath, then his eyes closed and he went limp. Skitra caught him before he slid off the bench.

"Remove those, Sergeant," the doctor said, glancing at the restraints that still held Reed's hands behind his back. Crowther looked at Patricks, who nodded. When the handcuffs had been removed, the Vulcan doctor carefully laid the unconscious man down on his back. Reed's face was very still, almost relaxed.

Patricks bit the inside of his lip. "Doc?"

The Vulcan turned around, his face oddly blank. "We are done here, Captain."

Patricks glanced at Reed. "What's going to happen to him now?"

Skitra straightened up again. "He will be unconscious for several hours. After that, he will not remember his name or identity, nor any of the things that Joint Forces Command doesn't want him to know. He will hardly be able to speak, and will need assistance with even the most basic things, such as eating or using the bathroom. That is what is going to happen to him, Captain."

With that, the Vulcan brushed past him and left, never waiting to be dismissed. Patricks stared after him, then turned back only to find Crowther and the other guards watching him.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" he snapped. "Back to your posts!"

A chorus of "Aye, sir" followed and the men quickly filed out of the room, returning to their former positions in the corridor. Patricks caught himself thinking that he might as well relieve them of duty; Reed certainly wasn't going to try and escape, or attack anyone who entered the cell. Then he shook off the thought. Having guards posted in front of a prisoner's cell was Joint Forces protocol, and he was going to stick to it, no matter what the doctor had told him.

Patricks glanced at the unconscious man who lay completely still, one hand on his chest, the other resting next to him on the bench. It was hard to believe that a simple injection should have erased his mind and sentience only a few minutes ago. Reed looked so peaceful, as if he had simply fallen asleep after a long, hard day.

The Captain shook his head and turned away. He had a report to make, and if he had learned anything in his time in the Joint Forces, it was that Command did not like to be kept waiting.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	17. Chapter 16

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback!

Firebirdgirl (yeah, Malcolm wouldn't want to do anything stupid at the moment...), JadziaKathryn (I'm glad you say you liked Patricks' POV; he was interesting to write, although... or maybe because... he's not your usual altruistic Starfleet Captain), Virgo (thank you! please let me know what you think of the next chapter...), Tata (thanks for reviewing and sorry about the short chapter ;)! This one's longer, I promise...), Luna (hm... well... I'm not telling... would kill the suspense, I guess ;) ), Trips Girl (again, I can't really answer any question without giving too much away ;)... but I'm glad you like it so much), Gabi (hier kommt das langerwartete Kissenkapitel... ich muss immer noch grinsen, wenn ich an deine Beschreibung eines ausgewachsenen Malcolm denke, der an seiner Station sitzt und an seinem Kuschelkissen schnullt ;) ), stage manager (thanks for what you said about Patricks... please keep telling me what you think!), The Libran Iniquity (EXACTLY my thoughts... they need to understand that Vulcans -are- different and don't want to be turned into pointy-eared humans... oh well, here I go again ;)... danke für deinen Review!), Cha Oseye Tempest Thrain (...you certainly do have a point there...), Emiliana Keladry (you're right, that's what they should've done, but I guess they just don't care enough to go to the trouble), Maraschino (...No, I'm not telling, sorry ;)... thank you for reviewing!), JennMel (...hopefully not...), BananaTrip (Trip -never- gets a break... I just love to torture the poor guy -g-), RoaringMice (thank you! please keep reviewing, I love hearing what you think!)

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Chapter 16

Clouds gathering outside the window. From their fourth-floor apartment, he can't see the street or any of the few trees, not even the street lamps' faint glow. There is only that tiny patch of gray sky, growing darker as the evening sunshine fades away. Malcolm can't remember ever being so scared before.

He buries his face in the large pillow he is hugging, knowing instinctively that the familiar softness and warm smell will ease his fright a little. His bed suddenly seems far too large for him, and he wishes he could find a hole to hide away from the silence around him. It is a comforting idea, curling up in a small, warm hiding place where he is safe. Where it wouldn't matter that it is growing dark outside, that he is alone and that Father has not come home tonight. Eyes tightly closed, Malcolm draws the pillow closer to his chest and pretends that none of this is happening.

He must have fallen asleep, for it is completely dark outside when he wakes up again. The pillow beneath his face is cold and wet, the salt of dried tears tickling his skin. Malcolm hadn't even noticed that he was crying. His throat is sore and he can hardly speak up above a whisper.

"Father?"

No response. That doesn't mean he's not home yet, Malcolm tells himself. Maybe he's sleeping. And he never wakes up until early afternoon when he's been out the night before.

He considers leaving his bed and seeing for himself if Father is back. The idea of walking through the darkness all the way over to the light switch scares him, but Malcolm realizes that he doesn't really have any choice. His full bladder is beginning to hurt, and he can either leave the safety of his blanket cocoon and venture into the darkness beyond, or he can wet his bed. Malcolm is terrified of the Things that can come at you from under the bed, jump out of the closet, creep up on you from behind the cupboard and swoop down at you from the ceiling lamp, Things that he knows are there even though you can't see them at daytime. But he needs to go. And you didn't wet your bed at the age of four. Well, or at the age of three-and-eight-months. Babies wet their beds, but he is old enough to know when he needs to use the bathroom. Like right now.

He wriggles out of the blankets that seem to cling to him, and carefully, very carefully sets one bare foot on the rug. Nothing happens, and he lets the other foot follow, still hugging his pillow close to his chest. A strange thought, the sort that will come to you only in the dark, suddenly crosses his mind. The pillow is a lucky charm; as long as he doesn't let go he is going to be alright. Malcolm holds it like a shield as he crosses the room, knowing that the second he releases the pillow the Things will come down on him.

He doesn't let go even after turning on the light, his left arm wrapped tightly around his security pillow as he opens the door to the hall. Malcolm sees immediately that Father has not come home while he has slept. The coat rack is empty except for Malcolm's small blue windcheater, and the only shoes on the floor beneath are his old sneakers which he has carefully set side by side, like he is used to do. He likes for everything to be neat and orderly, and always hangs up Father's jacket when he finds it crumpled up in a corner after another Night Out. Malcolm is too small to reach the coat rack and has to get a chair in order to do so, but he does it anyway. Like his pillow or the carefully arranged shoes, hanging up Father's jacket makes him feel safe.

Malcolm stares at the place where Father usually throws his old brown coat, and a feeling of dull dread begins to spread in his chest. This isn't right. Father has left as soon as Malcolm got home, has put on his coat and walked out without even looking at Malcolm. That in itself is strange, but it has happened before. Sometimes, he knows, Father just needs to Get Out. Malcolm doesn't like to be alone, but he is alright, taking care of himself for one afternoon and getting his own supper out of the fridge. He is, after all, not a baby. But Father isn't supposed to stay away a whole night. He can't. Grown-ups don't do that kind of thing.

It's not a whole night, Malcolm tells himself, resuming his way to the bathroom across the hall. Not yet, anyway. He's going to come home before morning. Of course he is. He always does.

Malcolm manages to pull down his pajama trousers and use the toilet without letting go of his pillow, which makes him feel a little better. As long as he doesn't let go of the lucky charm, things are going to be alright. And Father is going to come home. Soon.

After leaving the bathroom, Malcolm walks over to the front door and sits down under the coat rack, hugging his pillow harder than ever. Chances are that Father will fall over him when he comes home, but Malcolm doesn't mind. That way, he will wake up as soon as Father is back. The idea comforts him enough to keep any more tears at bay, and soon he is asleep, his head resting on the pillow in his arms.

... hurts. A dull pain tugging at his mind, trying to drag him back to consciousness. He wants to give in to it, but something else, something stronger than the pain, won't let go, pulling him in the other direction, deeper and deeper until he is back where...

The morning sunshine outside stirs him back to reality. Malcolm opens his eyes, momentarily confused when he finds himself sitting in the hall in his pajamas. His feet are cold, and his behind aches from the hard floor. He raises one hand to rub the sleep out of his eyes, mindful to keep his other hand firmly wrapped around the pillow. For some reason it seems very important not to let go.

Father is still gone.

At first, his sleepy mind doesn't really know how to deal with the thought and he pushes it away, clinging to his pillow as he slowly climbs to his feet. Sleeping out in the hall has left him weary and shaking with cold. Malcolm is still confused as to why he has done so in the first place.

Blearily, he glances up at the still empty coat rack and reality hits a second time, this time hard enough to take his breath away. Father has not come home. It is morning and Malcolm is still alone. He hugs the pillow so hard he almost expects the seams to split, his heart hammering in his chest.

Father is gone.

Malcolm can't fight the tears that fill his eyes, or the sobs that escape him. This has never happened before, Father has never left him alone for more than one night. In the morning, Malcolm has always woken up to find him, snoring and smelling of Bad Stuff, in his bedroom at the end of the hall. He hardly ever gets up to fix them breakfast or get Malcolm's packed lunch ready, but he is there. Snoring, smelling, sometimes stumbling out of bed to be sick into the toilet, but there.

Malcolm crouches down on the floor of the hall and weeps into his pillow. His sobs echo strangely in the empty apartment, frightening him. And what if Father never comes back, a nasty voice in his head speaks up. What if he left me here because I was bad, I know it's my fault that he is always crying and drinking Bad Stuff because I'm a bad bad boy, why else should he do so, and I don't even have a mum like other kids do and that's my fault too, because I'm just so BAD...

After a while he has no tears left to cry, and lies, exhausted, on his pillow which feels soaked and warm under his fingers. It's no longer a lucky charm, it won't make Father come back to pick him up and tell him that "it's alright, Skipper", but Malcolm still can't let go.

His stomach hurts, and while it is mostly because he has cried so hard, Malcolm realizes that he is hungry. And it is morning, he thinks while he slowly sits up again. Breakfast time. He knows how to fix his own breakfast, has done so a hundred times before when Father was still sleeping. But before that he needs to get dressed. He never eats breakfast without dressing first, even though no one would notice if he did.

Dragging his pillow along behind himself, Malcolm stumbles into his bedroom. His clothes are hanging over the backrest of his chair where he has left them the night before, and he takes them down, one piece after the other, and lays them down on the floor. For a moment, he stares down at them, unsure how he is going to put them on without letting go of the pillow. Then he carefully sets the pillow down next to his clothes, sits down on it and begins to pull off his pajama top.

The only thing he can't find are his socks, but Malcolm supposes that it doesn't matter. One hand clutching the pillow, he gathers up his pajamas and puts them away, awkwardly straightening the blankets afterwards. It doesn't look as neat as if he had done it with both hands, but it will have to do for today.

The bread bin in the kitchen is empty except for a dried-up roll and two pieces of toast. Malcolm takes them out anyway, then pries open the door of the refrigerator with his fingers since he is too short to reach the handle. A box of milk sits on one of the lower shelves, and he manages to take it out with one hand, carrying it over to the table and setting it down next to the toast. Toast and milk is what he mostly has for breakfast, and the familiar sight of the food comforts him a little.

He eats his breakfast sitting on his pillow, dipping the dry toast into his milk. The milk tastes somewhat funny, a little sour, but he drinks it anyway. When he is done, he carries his dishes over to the sink and wipes the crumbs off the table. There is only the roll left for lunch, but he doesn't mind. He doesn't feel all that hungry, anyway.

With his morning routine done, Malcolm slowly walks out into the hall again, feeling at a loss what to do. Today is Saturday, which means that he isn't going to Day Care. There has been a time when Father used to take him to places on Saturday, to the seaside or to a park where Malcolm could play. But he doesn't do so anymore, and today Malcolm mostly spends his weekends in his bedroom, playing very quietly so as not to wake Father.

Malcolm stares at the closed front door, imagining the corridor behind it with its dirt-stained walls and the broken lift. Maybe Father is somewhere out there, not too far away. Maybe he can go and find him. It shouldn't be too hard, he knows his way around the neighborhood. And he could take his pillow, just to be sure. Anything seems better than staying here, in the silent apartment where Things are lurking in dark places.

Malcolm slips into his sneakers, then pulls a chair over to the coat rack to get his windcheater. He almost topples over, chair and all, but then manages to hold on to both his jacket and the pillow without losing his balance. The thought of going outside puts his mind at ease. He is going to find Father, and then he is going to say sorry. Sorry for being bad, sorry for making him unhappy, and will he please please come back home.

He takes a deep breath and reaches out for the door handle, pulling it down. The door doesn't budge. Malcolm tries again, more vehemently this time, but the door won't move. It is locked.

For a moment, Malcolm stands motionless. Then he throws himself at the door, barely noticing that he has let go of his pillow, pounding on the wooden surface with his fists. He sobs and screams himself into exhaustion, then curls up in front of the door and hides his face in his arms. The silence pounds in his head and he covers his ears with his hands, trying not to listen...

...someone talking. A man's voice, but he can't make out the words. The pain of before is gone, but he feels strangely heavy, unable to move. Someone touches him and he tries to concentrate on the sensation, use it as a guide to return his mind to awareness, but he can't. An invisible rope is pulling at him, dragging him under, back to where he doesn't want to go...

In the second night, the rain starts. Malcolm lies curled up under the heavy blanket in Father's bed, listening to the steady knocking of the raindrops on the window. It sounds as though someone... or something... is drumming their fingers on the window, impatiently demanding to be let in. Malcolm trembles and pulls the pillow closer to his aching stomach. The bitter taste of vomit is still present in his mouth, even though he has flushed his mouth several times after he was sick. To calm down his upset stomach, he has tried to drink some more milk from the fridge only to be violently sick again, this time onto the kitchen floor. He hasn't even found the strength to clean up the mess, barely managing to drag himself back to bed. Father's bed. It's the only place where the Things can't reach him, even though he can hear them rummaging around in the hall and scratching their claws over the walls and furniture. Or maybe it's just the rain. He doesn't care anymore, his terror ebbing away into a deep exhaustion.

He must have fallen asleep at some point, since he wakes up to broad daylight coming in through the window. Raindrops are glistening in the sun, and Malcolm blinks in confusion, hugging his pillow closer to himself. He feels so very weak, and the blanket seems to be pinning him down on the bed, holding him captive. His upset stomach has settled down again, and only gives a dull pang when he tries to move. Malcolm lies utterly still, listening to the faint sound of people talking outside, of traffic going by and a dog barking. Maybe Father is out there with those people. Maybe he's waiting for his son to come and find him, to say sorry. Fresh tears trickle down Malcolm's cheeks. He can't go anywhere. The door is locked and his legs feel so weak; his head starts to spin whenever he gets out of bed. He can hardly make it to the bathroom anymore.

Malcolm watches the raindrops as they trickle down the window and slowly dry away. If he stares at them long enough, they start to blur before his eyes, becoming tiny stars that sparkle in a thousand different colors. It's a beautiful sight. He squints his eyes shut and suddenly feels very light, as though he is floating, swimming in those colors. Maybe if he waits, they will take him away to a different place, a warm and safe place where he won't be alone... all he has to do is wait a little while longer...

His stomach clenches in a sudden, painful spasm and the colors dissolve in front of his eyes. Malcolm presses a fist against his mouth, kicking his legs to get rid of the blanket. His feet get caught in the heavy fabric and he feels a stab of panic - he can't be sick into Father's bed, he can't. Another kick and the blanket is gone, cold air hitting his bare feet. Malcolm sits up and immediately regrets his move. The room starts to spin around him and his stomach protests against the sudden change of position, leaving him retching and gagging. Fortunately, though, all that comes out are a few drops of spit which land on the rug in front of the bed.

Shivering, Malcolm waits for the nausea to wear off, then slides off the bed and walks on shaky legs to the door. All he wants to do is lie down again and close his eyes, maybe go back to see those colors again, but first he needs to get rid of that nasty taste in his mouth.

Crossing the hall, Malcolm sees several of the Things, quick, darting shadows at the very periphery of his vision. He clutches his pillow, determined not to let go. As long as he doesn't let go, he is safe. The Things can't hurt him as long as he has got his pillow. And there are no dark corners in the bathroom, no places where they could hide. Only tiles and towels and the tiny window next to the shower stall. In here, he feels safe enough if he only sees the pillow without actually touching it.

Malcolm is too short to reach the tap over the sink, so he pulls a stool over to the washstand and uses it as a stepladder. His fingers shake as he turns on the tap, and it takes him several attempts to catch some of the water in his cupped hands and bring it to his mouth.

When he is done, he wipes his wet hands over his face. The cool water feels good on his skin and he lets his hands rest on his hot cheeks for a moment, closing his eyes. It's a calming sensation, like someone washing his face with a cool sponge.

He almost stumbles on his way back to Father's room, only barely managing to steady himself on the wall. Malcolm knows that he won't be able to get up again if he falls, and carefully watches his steps on the rest of the way. Pillow or no, the mere idea of staying in the hall where the Things roam about fills him with dread.

Once he is back in bed, Malcolm curls up to a small ball on the blanket and positions the pillow on top of himself. It covers him almost completely, and he draws his arms and legs even closer to himself, like a turtle withdrawing into its shell. Protected by his lucky charm and thoroughly exhausted from his trip to the bathroom, Malcolm drifts away to sleep.

... a brief moment of awareness, opening his eyes only to be blinded by the light, and still he knows that he can't stay here, not when the thing tugging at him refuses to let go...

_Voices. Malcolm opens his eyes and his first thought is that the Things are back. Talking. Thumping on the front door, hollering out for someone, he can't understand the name. It doesn't matter. He knows that they want him. They have been waiting, afraid to come close to him because of his lucky charm, but now their patience has worn thin. The sky outside has grown dark again, their time of the day has arrived and now they are going to come for him. _

Malcolm can't stifle a small whimper when the thumping on the front door gets louder. He clutches his pillow, realizing at the same time that it won't be able to protect him. Not anymore. Something warm and wet spreads in his crotch, and Malcolm tightly squeezes his eyes shut when he hears the front door burst open and slam against the wall. He doesn't want to see them when they come in.

Stiff with fear, he lies and listens as they stomp around in the hall, calling out that "He's not in his room." Strange, he would have expected them to know that he is in Father's room; after all, they saw him coming out to get a drink of water. Their steps are coming closer, and Malcolm buries his face in his pillow. No, he is not going to look at them.

"Over here, Dave! He's in here!"

Malcolm clenches his hands to fists, waiting for the Thing to grab him. Bite him. Tear him apart. He wonders if it's going to hurt, then decides not to think about it. He knew this was going to happen, and now he only wants it to be over.

"Oh my God." A voice close to his head. "I think he's..."

"Let me see." Something - a hand, he realizes, not a claw - touches his shoulder, feeling its way to his neck. The fingers rest there for a moment, then, to Malcolm astonishment, withdraw again instead of closing around his throat. "No, he's okay. Thank God."

"Hey." The hand is back, but this time it stays on his shoulder, squeezing gently. "Can you hear me?"

It's a woman speaking, Malcolm realizes, and she doesn't sound as though she wants to hurt him. It could be trick, of course. Very carefully, he turns his head a little, and sees that the hand belongs indeed not to one of the Things, but to a woman. A woman with red hair and freckles and a police uniform.

"Hey," she says and smiles at him, but she doesn't look happy. "You're Malcolm, right?"

He nods, unable to speak. Behind the woman, he can see another man in a police uniform and old Mrs. Stanley from next door. She seems to be crying, although he doesn't know why.

"We found your father, Malcolm," the red-haired woman says, her thumb stroking his shoulder. "He is going to be alright, but he'll have to stay in the hospital for a while. He told us where to find you when he woke up. I know all of this is very frightening for you, but it's going to be okay. You're going to be fine."

Malcolm doesn't understand. Why would Father be in the hospital? And how could the police have "found" him?

"That drunken bastard." Mrs. Stanley's voice sounds hoarse and angry. "I always knew it was going to come to this. Leaving the poor little guy all alone in here, he should be arrested for child abuse."

The policewoman turns her head to look at Mrs. Stanley. "Well, if you always knew, then why didn't you report him?"

Mrs. Stanley says nothing and looks down at her hands, her cheeks growing red. Malcolm doesn't know what they are talking about, but it doesn't matter. There is only one thing he cares about at the moment.

"Is Father angry with me?" he asks, his voice trembling. Usually, Malcolm is afraid to talk to strangers, but right now he doesn't care. "Is that why he didn't come home? B-because I've been bad?"

He feels tears trickling down his cheeks and hides his face in his pillow. He doesn't want them to think that he is a baby.

"Malcolm." He is lifted off the bed and feels the woman's arms wrap around him as she holds him in her lap. Still clutching his pillow, Malcolm leans against her and allows the tears to fall. He can't help it. "You haven't been bad. Your father was very drunk when we found him, so drunk that he had to go to the hospital. He's not angry with you. He was very upset when he woke up and realized that he had left you on your own for so long."

Malcolm closes his eyes. The policewoman's uniform scratches against his cheek, but she feels warm and smells of lady's shampoo and he wishes she would go on holding him forever and ever. He is so tired.

"You think we should take him to a doctor?" he hears the policeman ask. "He doesn't look so good."

"Yes, maybe we'd better," the woman says, and Malcolm doesn't dare to say that he doesn't want to go. Those two are, after all, police officers, and it doesn't seem like a good idea to answer back and maybe get locked up in prison.

"Dave, why don't you call the hospital that we've found him," the policewoman continues. "I'll take care of him."

Malcolm sees the policeman take out his mobile and leave the room. Mrs. Stanley pulls out a tissue, wiping her eyes.

"Is there anything I can do?" she asks.

"Well," the policewoman says, " if you could pack up some of Malcolm's clothes and things, it would be a big help. And maybe find something else for him to wear, as well."

Mrs. Stanley nods and follows the policeman out into the hall, disappearing in Malcolm's bedroom. Malcolm knows that the policewoman has noticed his wet trousers, and he feels ashamed. He's not a baby, hasn't wet himself for years. He wants to tell her so, but his throat feels so tight and he can't speak. The policewoman doesn't seem to mind, though; she continues holding him, stroking his hair from time to time. Malcolm feels his eyes drifting closed.

After a while Mrs. Stanley and the policeman come back, Mrs. Stanley carrying a cotton bag in one hand and a pair of Malcolm's trousers in the other. When she begins to take off his old trousers, however, he shakes his head, slides off the policewoman's lap and walks on shaky legs to the door, dragging his pillow and the clean trousers along. He can change himself, doesn't need their help. He's not a baby. Closing the bathroom door behind himself, he hears the police officers and Mrs. Stanley chuckle softly, although he has no idea what they would be laughing about. They wouldn't want to undress in front of people they hardly know.

When he comes back out of the bathroom, the dizzy feeling has returned and all he wants to do is go back to bed. The policewoman is waiting outside in the hall and says something as he walks by, but he doesn't catch the words, his ears buzzing with dizziness. He knows that he isn't being polite, that he should show them to the door and say goodbye, but he feels far too tired to do so. He climbs back into Father's bed, moving away from the wet spot and hugging his pillow. Now that he knows that Father isn't angry with him, things are going to be alright.

"Malcolm!"

The policewoman is back. Malcolm turns his head to look at her.

"I'm sorry, Malcolm, but you can't stay here."

He frowns. Can't stay here? "Why not?"

She sighs a little. "Malcolm, we can't leave you here. You'll have to come with us."

He opens his mouth to tell her that he's going to be alright, he can take care of himself. The policewoman, however, doesn't seem inclined to listen. She picks him up, gently pulling the pillow from his grip and laying it down on the bed.

"It's okay, Malcolm, you're-"

"No!" He doesn't know where the scream came from, or the tears that suddenly fill his eyes. Struggling in her arms, he tries to get free. "No, put me down, I'm not going with you, I need to wait for Father..."

But she doesn't let go and walks to the door, holding him firmly in her arms. Malcolm sees his pillow on the bed and wants to tell her that he needs it, can't go without it, it's his lucky charm, but all that comes out are hoarse, desperate sobs. She closes the door and the pillow disappears from sight. That is when Malcolm realizes that they are really going to do it, that they are going to take him away, and he cries and cries, not listening to anything they say, only knowing that from now on, things are never going to be alright, never ever...

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The light was back, blinding and disorienting. He closed his eyes again, knowing that this time, he wouldn't be returning to the world of his nightmare. The dream was always the same, it never changed. And he knew it so well. Every time he dreamed it, it was the same terror, the same fear and despair. As if those feelings were buried somewhere deep inside him, waiting to be dragged to the surface every time he returned to that empty apartment in his sleep. And he never woke up before the dream was over. Try as he may, the dream needed to be dreamed to its end, and it wouldn't allow him to return to the living world before he hadn't experienced every single moment to its very end.

He lay still and listened to himself breathing. His body felt heavy, as if it were only a lifeless appendage, packed in layers of soft fabric to keep it warm. There was no pain, which, for some reason, surprised him. There should be pain, he should be writhing in agony, although he didn't remember exactly why that should be so. He realized, however, that something had happened. Something that must have taken the pain away.

Mindful of the bright light, he opened his eyes very slowly, half-expecting to find himself back in Father's bed, his pillow clutched tightly against his stomach. Instead of the shabby bedroom, however, he saw a clean, sterile-looking blanket, and a IV tube snaking its way down next to his head. Sickbay. He had been hurt and now he was in sickbay. That explained why there was no pain. Phlox must have given him something.

Malcolm let his eyes travel over his surroundings, taking in the white curtains around his bed and the steady flashing of the monitor next to his bed. Something was not quite right, looked not quite right, and he could almost remember what it was. Almost.

Images from the dream kept pushing their way to the surface, confusing his thoughts. He couldn't seem to concentrate, despite the feeling that something was definitely wrong...

Steps drew closer and a moment later someone pulled the curtain aside. Malcolm stared. An old Vulcan in a dark green uniform approached the bed, glancing briefly at the flashing monitor. Malcolm couldn't remember ever seeing that man before.

He opened his mouth, but before he could say anything the Vulcan turned around to look at him.

"Mr. Tucker? Can you hear me?"

Tucker. Trip. The shuttle. A Vulcan in a Joint Forces uniform. The pieces suddenly fit together, and Malcolm realized that this was not Enterprise's sickbay at all. The whole thing still didn't make a lot of sense, but at least he knew why he was here. He had been hurt, slammed against the shuttle deck by the force of the explosion. He could remember being hurled through the air, flames flickering behind him...

Malcolm cleared his throat. "Trip?" he asked, his sore throat protesting as he said the name. The Vulcan raised an eyebrow. "Mr. Tucker?"

Malcolm tried to nod, but found that he couldn't do so. Something was forcing him to keep his head perfectly still, leaving him no choice but to try and speak again.

"Where is he?"

The Vulcan regarded him for a long moment. "If you are referring to Lieutenant Reed, he is still in the brig. I-"

Again, the curtain was pushed aside, interrupting the Vulcan. A tall, brown-haired human in a Joint Forces uniform approached the bed, a phaser rifle slung over his shoulder. The Vulcan frowned.

"Is there something I can help you with, Corporal?"

The man ignored him and stepped closer to the bed, pulling out a pair of restraints. He took hold of Malcolm's right wrist, but the Vulcan intervened before he could do anything else.

"What is the purpose of this, Corporal?" he asked. His mouth had become a thin, hard line. "The man is injured and confused. He is no threat to anyone."

The Corporal shrugged, fitting the cuff around Malcolm's wrist and securing it on the bedrail. "Captain's orders. The prisoner is to be kept in restraints when he's awake. Sorry, doc."

He picked up Malcolm's other arm, and Malcolm couldn't suppress a cry of pain. The arm was swathed in bandages, and even the slight pressure of the Corporal's fingers was enough to cause searing agony.

"Let him go at once!"

At the Vulcan's cutting tone, the man let go, though not without an annoyed look at the old doctor. "Doctor, Captain Patricks said-"

"I do not care what the Captain said!" the Vulcan said, his eyes glittering dangerously. "You will do no further harm to my patient, or I will see to it that an entry is made into your personal file for inexcusable ineptitude! I suggest you leave at once, before I forget that I am not allowed to use my anaesthetic sprays for anything other than medical purposes!"

The Corporal took a hasty step back, stuffing the second handcuff back into his pocket. "Keep your shirt on, I was only following my orders! I didn't mean to hurt him."

"For your information, Corporal, gripping someone's broken arm hardly ever fails to result in severe pain. Now, as the Captain would put it, I want you out of here, now!"

The Corporal retreated, muttering quietly to himself as he closed the curtain. Malcolm forced himself to take slow, even breaths as the pain in his arm began to subside. The Vulcan turned back to him.

"Please forgive me for not introducing myself before," he said, as calmly as though he had never threatened the Corporal to knock him out with a hypospray only a minute ago. "I am Dr. Skitra. You are on the Joint Forces vessel Wildfire. I apologize for this-" he nodded at the handcuff that secured Malcolm's right wrist to the bedrail. "Security protocol can be somewhat rigid at times."

Malcolm frowned, trying to digest what the doctor was telling him. So he was a prisoner of the Joint Forces. In a way, it made sense, correlated with his memories of how he had gotten injured. But there was still something fundamentally wrong.

He closed his eyes for a moment, gathering all his strength for another attempt at communication. "Where's Tucker, doctor?"

Skitra watched him concernedly. "You are in sickbay. Do not worry, no one is going to harm you. Try not to speak, you are suffering from a rather severe concussion."

Malcolm stared at him, trying to understand why the doctor wouldn't answer his question about Trip, seemingly evading him on purpose. And there had been that remark about Lieutenant Reed being in the brig that had made absolutely no sense at all.

Like the little boy in his nightmare, Malcolm couldn't seem to understand what was going on around him. But it couldn't be that he was still dreaming, could it? No, all of this felt far too real to be a dream.

He opened his mouth once again when a voice from outside the curtain interrupted him.

"You got a moment, doc?"

Skitra glanced back over his shoulder. "I will be with you in a minute, Captain."

He straightened Malcolm's blanket and briefly checked the readings on the bio monitor. "Try to get some rest, Mr. Tucker. I will be back later to check on you."

With that, the Vulcan disappeared through the curtain, leaving Malcolm to stare after him.

I don't think we're in Kansas anymore.

Why the old doctor would call him "Mr. Tucker" was beyond him, but Malcolm knew that he had heard him right. It had been "Get some rest, Mr. Tucker", and the only time the doctor had mentioned Malcolm's own name had been to tell him that "Lieutenant Reed" was in the brig.

Before Malcolm's weary mind could come up with an explanation, however, the sound of muffled voices caught his attention.

"... still rather confused." Skitra sounded worried. "He keeps referring to himself in the third person, asking where he is. I will have to sedate him if he doesn't become lucid in the next few hours. We cannot afford to upset him."

"Whatever you say." The Captain seemed slightly impatient. "Is he going to recover before we reach Earth? Singer wants him transferred to D-04 as soon as we enter orbit."

"Mr. Tucker will have returned to physical health when we reach our destination." The doctor's voice had taken on a resentful undertone. "As far as I can tell, that is. I would not advise sending him to a detention center without a thorough medical examination, however."

"Yeah, well, I don't think Command will be very interested, but I'm going to include your recommendation in my report." The Captain sighed. "Doctor, I'd like to talk to you about Lieutenant Reed."

"Yes?" For some reason, Skitra's voice grew even colder at the mention of the name. Malcolm held his breath and listened.

"It's just that..." The Captain hesitated. "I can't really ask the security staff to take care of him. It's been well over a day, and he hasn't eaten anything. He... doesn't use the bathroom, either. I can't expect my men to..."

"I see." The doctor paused. "I cannot afford to have one of my nurses assigned to the brig for a full shift. We will need to transfer him to the IC unit."

"Doctor..."

"Captain." Again, Skitra's voice had a cutting edge to it that didn't invite argument. "I cannot take care of a patient when he is locked up in the brig. You can post an additional security detail in front of the door or install video cameras, but please do not interfere with my medical procedures. And I will not agree to keep Reed in restraints. In his current condition it would only agitate him and possibly lead to injuries." He paused briefly, continuing in a softer tone. "Captain, we had to give him the injection, but we do not need to treat him any worse than necessary."

"If you say so, doc. I'll have Crowther and his team take him up to sickbay."

"I'll need another hour to prepare the IC unit, Captain. And sir..."

"Yes?"

"I would appreciate it if Security did not mistreat the prisoners. Mr. Tucker is severely injured, and Lieutenant Reed no longer a competent adult. The crew should keep that in mind."

Again, the Captain sighed. "I'll talk to Crowther about it, doc, but you know how it is..."

"No, I do not." Skitra didn't seem willing to give in.

"I'll see what I can do." Malcolm could almost hear the shrug in the Captain's voice. "I'll tell Crowther to drop him off in about an hour. That alright with you?"

"Yes, Captain."

"Good. See you later, doc."

Skitra gave no answer, and a moment later Malcolm heard a door open and close. Realizing that he was still holding his breath, he slowly exhaled and closed his eyes. His heart was hammering in his chest, and his throat suddenly seemed far too tight.

Lieutenant Reed had indeed been taken to the brig. And as if that wasn't enough, Lieutenant Reed had also been given an injection. An injection that had turned him from a competent adult into someone who had to be taken to the IC unit so the doctor's nurses could take care of him. Yeah, Lieutenant Reed sure seemed to hog all the attention these days.

_But we haven't even reached the punch line yet,_ the nasty voice in Malcolm's head continued. _Wanna hear what's really funny about the whole thing? Want me to tell you, "Mister Tucker"?_

Malcolm squeezed his eyes shut, as if it could drive away the images that suddenly rose before his mental eye. Trip, telling the Joint Forces Captain that he was the one they wanted. Making sure that Malcolm was safe, that he received the medical attention he needed. Trip in the brig, keeping his silence even as they injected him with the substance that would erase his mind. Trip sitting in his cell, staring blankly into nothingness...

Malcolm felt something warm trickle down his cheeks, letting it run since he couldn't raise a hand to wipe it off. Damn him to hell. Damn him straight to hell for doing this, for saving the life of someone who certainly wasn't worth it.

_It's my duty to serve and protect,_ Trip had said when he had saved Malcolm's life the first time, lying to the Kareedian police about running away. Serve and protect. So that was it as far as he was concerned? His duty to serve and protect, and his own life mattered nothing? Or, goddammit, the lives of the children he was leaving behind?

He noticed that he was trembling all over. For a brief moment, Malcolm wanted to shout out loud, tell them that _he_ was Lieutenant Reed, that _he_ should be the one in the brig, the one who was no longer a competent adult.

But no sound came out except for a congested noise that might have been a sob. He kept his silence just like Trip had, staring at the white curtains until they were nothing but blurred shapes in front of his eyes and wishing he had died when he hit the shuttle deck. If his injuries had killed him right then and there, there would have been no reason for Trip to protect him. No reason to throw away his own life.

Malcolm lay there for what seemed like hours, and when Skitra came back he didn't react to anything the doctor said. He knew that the doctor was going to knock him out if he didn't respond, that the nightmare was going to repeat itself, stirred up by the drugs, but he didn't care. Maybe that was what he deserved, reliving the horrors of his past again and again while Trip was living through the horrors of the present.

Feeling the cold touch of the hypospray against his neck, Malcolm experienced a strange moment of satisfaction. He could already feel the nightmare tugging at the edges of his mind, and this time he wanted to give in to it, go back to the place where he had been more frightened than ever again in his life.

It was, it seemed, the only place where he had a right to be.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	18. Chapter 17

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for reviewing!

Tata (thank you! we'll see about the happy ending ;)...), Gabi (ja, der arme Malcolm... könnte fast meinen, er ist schizophren, und muss sich von sich selbst beschimpfen lassen -gg-), Emiliana Keladry (thank you... yes, now that they're back together, Trip's going to need Malcolm's help and support...), JadziaKathryn (a little hope... I'll see what I can do :) ), The Libran Iniquity (oh yes, T'Pol's PJ's... although I guess Skitra wouldn't look quite as... impressive, wearing them ;)), Exploded Pen for chapters 16 and 17 (sorry, got your review only a sec after I'd updated... I'm glad you liked the last two chapters, please keep telling me what you think!), Virgo (I'm glad you say so - writing Malcolm as a child was a lot of fun, although I wasn't entirely sure if it worked), MuseUrania (yes, I guess it is... thanks for reviewing!), Luna (Again, thank you for your comment... it's good to hear that Malcolm's "nightmare" fit into the storyline), trisuns5 (I'm glad you like the story, and I'd be thrilled to hear what you think about the chapters to come! I can't really answer your question without giving too much away, but, to quote Malcolm in Shuttlepod I: "Must think happy endings!"), archteri (hmm... might be a good idea, as long the original me is the one who gets to write ;)... thanks for reviewing!), Maraschino (I'm glad you liked the backstory... thank you), Trips Girl (yes, poor Malcolm... and we'll see about Trip. Pet your cats for me, and I hope all three of you enjoy the next chapter ;) ), stage manager (see, that's exactly how I feel about him ;) )

Please keep telling me what you think!

Chapter 17

T'Pol sat at the head of the conference table, watching her officers as they filed into the room. Commander Soval, whose face gave away none of his emotions, Commander Archer, who looked distinctly worried, and Ensigns Sato and Mayweather, who exchanged nervous looks as they took their seats at the table. The Captain had never really been able to read the doctor's facial expressions, but she had the distinct feeling that he was worried as well, if the absence of his usual strange smile was any indication.

Truth be told, T'Pol wasn't feeling too calm herself. She had allowed herself half an hour of meditation before calling this meeting, but to little success. Her emotions were still closer to the surface than she liked, forcing her to resort to playacting if she wanted to appear perfectly calm. Such a lack of control was not seemly of a Vulcan in her position, and T'Pol decided to spend an extra hour meditating when her shift was over. After today, she was certainly going to need it.

She looked from one of her senior crewmembers to the next, feeling strangely reluctant to begin. If she told them what she had learned today, she wasn't merely endangering their careers, although that in itself was bad enough. She was asking them to decide where their loyalties lay, if they were willing to defy authority in order to help a colleague. Her own decision was made, but she was not going to force it on them. Starfleet hierarchy or no, this was something they needed to decide for themselves.

"Gentlemen," she said. "Ensign Sato. Thank you for attending."

She looked at Mayweather. "Please report our status, Ensign."

The young helmsman leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. "We're still following the signal of the tracking device, and are going to reach its position in about five to six hours, at maximum warp."

"Thank you." T'Pol tilted her head at him. "Have there been any changes in the data we are receiving from the device? Commander Archer?"

The engineer shook his head. "No, ma'am. It's still overlapping with the Joint Forces warp signature."

"Very well." She straightened her posture. "I have called this meeting to give you the results of my recent investigations, and decide what to do next. The information I am going to pass is not without risk. If anyone wishes to leave, I will not hold it against them."

T'Pol waited, but just as she had expected, none of them moved.

"Good. You are all aware of the fact that Joint Forces Command was not too pleased with Mr. Reed's escape. I believe I may have found the reason why Admiral Singer and several of his colleagues are so eager to have Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker taken into custody." She paused briefly. "In my research, I came across an unusually large number of classified sections, as well as back-up codes which suggested that several thousand files had been deleted from the Joint Forces Archive. I have come to the conclusion that most of the deleted files contained old transmission data."

Commander Archer frowned. "What sort of transmissions?"

T'Pol met his eyes. "Most of them were long-distance messages, originating from the Headquarters of the organization which was later going to develop into the Joint Forces."

"You mean, those transmissions were sent before the Vulcans made first contact with Earth?" Ensign Sato interjected.

"Indeed. Some of them date back sixty-five years ago. The latest seems to have been sent only a few months before the first encounter of our two people."

The communications officer shook her head. "But who would they have been transmitting to? Humans had no allies up to that point."

T'Pol forced her voice to sound perfectly level. "They didn't. Nevertheless, the transmissions were sent to alien ships which were hiding in the Sol system for the very purpose of receiving those messages. And acting on them."

Archer's eyes had narrowed. "What kind of ships?" he asked.

"Orion pirate vessels," T'Pol said quietly.

Silence followed. Looking at the faces of her officers, T'Pol found that for once she could sympathize with their human emotions. She herself had been stunned by that particular bit of information which finally fit all the pieces of her mosaic together, metaphorically speaking. And the picture that resulted was more than revolting.

"I don't understand," Archer managed after a while. "What would they have been sending to the pirates?"

"Coordinates," T'Pol answered. "Coordinates and descriptions of the places that would be the easiest to attack. Sometimes they even mentioned the number of people living in a particular area, or recommended to the Raiders not to try and attack any of the larger cities. Given the success of the Raids, it seems to have been rather sound advice."

The humans had grown pale while she talked. Dr. Phlox's eyebrows constricted, forming a sharp contrast to his normally cordial expression. T'Pol noticed that even Commander Soval's lips had grown somewhat thinner than usual, revealing a glimpse of the anger the Commander kept behind his calm facade.

"Are you saying," Archer said finally, "that the military who was supposed to protect Earth helped the Orions plan their attacks?"

"Not only the military," T'Pol said. "Scientists were involved as well, as well as several people who held high positions in the Central Government."

"But why?" Mayweather's hand were clenched to fists. "Why would anyone do such a thing?"

"Technology," Soval said, raising an eyebrow when everybody turned their heads to look at him. "It is the logical conclusion. Technology is the only thing the Orions could offer the humans, except for guaranteeing the safety of their human negotiating partners, of course."

"Negotiating partners!" Archer rounded on Soval, backed up by Sato's and Mayweather's angry looks. "How can you talk about it as though they were simply doing business! They-"

"Commander Archer," T'Pol interrupted, wishing Soval would be a bit more cautious about his choice of words. Humans were so easily offended when it came to miscommunication. "I do not think Commander Soval was belittling the atrocity of what these people have done. But he is right. In exchange for the coordinates, the Orions sent blueprints of weapons and warp technology. It is not least due to those transmissions that the humans had managed to reach such a high stage of technological development when the Vulcans made first contact."

"I can't believe anyone would betray their own people, in exchange for weapons!" Ensign Sato's cheeks reddened. "They knew what was going to happen to the people after they were abducted!"

"I see your point, Ensign," T'Pol said. "It is difficult to believe. It seems, though, that not everyone involved was sanguine about what was going on. I have managed to restore one of the files containing a message that was sent by Admiral Anne Wyatt about forty years ago, to one Dr. Simon Andrews. It seems that Andrews was responsible for adapting the Orion blueprints to human technology, and had on several occasions voiced his criticism of cooperating with the Orion Raiders." She pulled out a padd and began to read. "_You will agree with me, Simon, that our friends out there are going to get what they want, one way or another. The question is how they get it. By negotiating, giving them a few hints that don't do too much harm, we are doing the only thing that will enable us to get enough of their technology to protect ourselves in the future. Regardless of what some people may say, there is no way we can stop them, but we can at least turn what they're doing to our own advantage_."

T'Pol turned back to her audience. "Dr. Andrews seems to have disagreed, for he disappeared a month after this message was sent. Something that appears to have happened to quite a lot of the people who criticized the goings-on at Headquarters."

"But how could they possibly keep it a secret for such an extended period of time?" Phlox wanted to know. "Someone must have noticed what they were doing, sooner or later."

"Earth was going through an unstable period at the time, doctor," T'Pol said. "People had developed a blind trust in authority, relying on the military to guarantee their safety. No one would have believed such stories to be the truth."

"This Admiral Wyatt you mentioned," Archer said. "Wasn't she in charge of Joint Forces Command until twenty years ago? Even after the Vulcans had made first contact with Earth?"

"Indeed." T'Pol glanced down at her padd, her eyes trailing down a list of names. "And she is only one of many. None of the people involved had to give up their positions in the military when the Vulcans arrived and the Joint Forces were founded. They managed to conceal what they had done, deleting a great amount of files and classifying the rest. Today, of course, almost all of them have died or retired, but there are still people who know about the things that happened before the Vulcans arrived. And they are only too aware of the impact it would have on the Joint Forces if the truth became known."

"It'd be the end of them," Archer said, meeting her eyes.

T'Pol tilted her head in acknowledgement. "Indeed. Most humans still remember vividly what the Orions have done to Earth, and if they knew that the Joint Forces played an active role in the Raids, the organization would be dissolved. That is why people like Admiral Singer are willing to resort to any means in order to keep the past secret."

"But what's all of this got to do with Malcolm and Tr- I mean, Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker?" Ensign Sato asked.

T'Pol inclined her head. "That would have been my next point, Ensign. It seems that several of the high-ranking Vulcan officers in the Joint Forces decided that they wanted to know more about the trading and military relations between the Orions and Kareedia. Vulcan has been watching out for Kareedia for some time now, since our planet is rather close to the Kareedian system and they are known to be a fairly aggressive people. If they became allies of the Orions, they might deem themselves strong enough to invade our borders of space."

"So Malcolm was ordered to spy on that Kareedian politician," Archer added.

"Indeed. But it didn't take long for Admiral Singer and other Joint Forces officers to realize that Lieutenant Reed's findings might become very dangerous to them. In the years of the Raids, Kareedia was one of the Orions' strongest customers. Accordingly, many humans ended up as slaves on their planet, and of course the Kareedian government knew about the Orions' dealings with the Terran military. One Kareedian vessel even sent a subspace message to Earth, offering transporter technology in exchange for new coordinates. That was at a time when the Orion Raids had already come to an end, but someone in Joint Forces Command managed to intercept the transmission before anyone else found out."

"Admiral Singer?" Archer asked quietly.

"Yes," T'Pol said. There was no sense in keeping any facts from her officers; she had already told them more than enough to put their careers, if not their freedom, at risk. "The things Lieutenant Reed found out are enough for the Vulcan officers to draw their own conclusions. If Reed had reported as planned, Admiral Selin might have well found out about the things his human colleagues have been hiding over the years."

"So they decided to have him brainwashed." Archer pressed his lips together.

T'Pol acknowledged with a nod. "Exactly. Singer was not willing to take any risks. He believed that if Lieutenant Reed was unable to report to his commanding officers and Mr. Tucker was taken to a detention center, all possible sources of information would be erased."

"What about you, ma'am?" Mayweather asked. "You had insight into Malcolm's reports as well."

"I was only allowed to read his mission report," T'Pol said. "But I was not permitted access to the data he had gathered, nor was he allowed to give me any details. In the meantime, of course, I have reviewed the data regardless of my orders."

She looked at every single one of them, meeting their eyes which spoke of anger and the shock they had suffered.

"In my opinion, the safety of a crewmate takes precedence over unquestioning obedience to authority," she said. "But I am not going to order you to do anything that might be regarded as mutiny."

Archer smiled grimly. "I think I speak for all of us when I say 'To hell with authority'."

"You do not," Soval remarked coolly, ignoring the dagger glares he was receiving from his human colleagues. "I am perfectly capable of speaking for myself, and I say we should rescue Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker before they come to harm. I refuse, however, to condemn the concept of a authority as a whole."

"Acknowledged, Commander," T'Pol said hurriedly before any of the humans got the chance to express their feelings on Soval's statement. "As you all know, we are on an intercept course with the Joint Forces vessel that has taken Reed and Tucker prisoner. I was planning to negotiate with the captain, but in light of recent developments I believe we need a back-up plan."

"It's only a scout vessel," Mayweather said. "If worst comes to worst..."

"I do not intend to use weapon force unless it is absolutely necessary," T'Pol responded a little more sharply than she had intended. "I believe, however, that a bit of "gunboat diplomacy", as humans would call it, should help us achieve our goal if mere negotiation tactics fail."

Archer nodded. "They're not going to risk a fight."

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "It would indeed be an illogical decision. I sincerely hope we will be able to retrieve the Lieutenant and Mr. Tucker without using force."

"And then?" Ensign Sato wanted to know. "Are we going to take them to Denobula?"

T'Pol steepled her fingers on the table in front of her. She had considered this point very thoroughly, arriving at the conclusion that there was only one logical thing to do.

"No," she answered. "Going into hiding would only be a temporary solution. The Lieutenant and Mr. Tucker would always have to fear the Joint Forces' persecution, no matter where they seek asylum. I have decided on a different course of action."

Soval raised an eyebrow at her. "Informing Admiral Selin?"

T'Pol bowed her head. "Exactly. I have prepared a detailed report which I am going to send to the Admiral once Lieutenant Reed and Mr. Tucker are safely back on Enterprise."

Archer regarded her with a strange expression on his face. "Then what?" he asked quietly.

She met his eyes. "I do not know, Commander. I cannot predict what steps the Admiral is going to take, or what effect my report is going to have. But, to use another human expression, all we can do is wait and see."

* * *

"Mr. Tucker, for the last time, you need to eat something. Your body is still healing, and needs all the nutrition it can get."

Malcolm looked up at the worried face of the old Vulcan doctor, and back at the bowl of potato soup that was sitting on the folding table in front of him. Skitra had bullied the Corporal into taking off the handcuff, but the prospect of eating didn't seem any more appealing even if he could hold the spoon himself rather than allowing himself to be fed like a baby. In fact, merely imagining how the warm, thick substance would feel in his mouth made him faintly sick.

"I'm not hungry, thanks, doctor."

"Mr. Tucker."

__

I'm not Mr. Tucker

, Malcolm wanted to snap, but he pressed his lips together before the words could slip out. Every time anyone addressed him using Trip's name, a sting went through his chest, reminding him that the rightful owner of the name was gone. Cut off from reality. A dribbling idiot, to quote Corporal Garton. Malcolm didn't recall in detail what he had called the Corporal after that particular wisecrack aimed at Trip, only remembered that Dr. Skitra had interrupted his angry shouting by pressing a hypospray against his neck.

That had been two days ago, only a few hours after Crowther and his men had dragged the person that had once been Trip Tucker into sickbay, abandoning him on a biobed and wiping their hands on their way out as though they had touched something dirty.

Trip hadn't moved, staring blankly into empty space and rocking slightly back and forth until Skitra and one of his nurses had guided him into the separate IC unit. It had been obvious that up to this point, no one had bothered to help Trip use the facilities, or at least found something else for him to wear. The Corporal, of course, had found the situation extremely amusing, and it was only the restraints that had kept Malcolm from jumping out of bed and strangling the man.

"Mr. Tucker," Skitra repeated, breaking through his thoughts. "I cannot allow you to keep this up. You need to eat, or your body will suffer the consequences. I have taken you off the IV because I believe you are ready to take food, but I will have to put you back on the drip if you refuse to eat."

Malcolm was about to shrug - he didn't really care if the doctor stuck another one of his needles into him. All he knew was that the sight of food made him nauseous. Then, however, a thought crossed his mind, and he stopped in mid movement. So far, he had not been allowed to get up, except for brief trips to the sickbay's small shower stall, and the handcuff stopped him from getting up even when the doctor and the Corporal left the room. Which they hardly ever did. And of course he had not been allowed to see Trip. But maybe, if he cooperated...

Malcolm picked up the spoon. "Well, I'll give it a try."

Skitra's eyebrow shot up, a clear sign that he had not expected Malcolm to give in. "I am glad that you listen to reason, Mr. Tucker."

Malcolm gave a noncommittal grunt, dipping the spoon into the dark yellow liquid. The soup tasted less horrible than he had expected, and he quickly swallowed the first spoonful, reminding himself than he would have to eat at least a few of them if he wanted to convince the doctor of his willingness to cooperate. Skitra watched him like a hawk, probably to make sure the soup actually went down Malcolm's throat and not the side of the bed when he wasn't looking.

After the sixth spoonful, Malcolm looked up again. "How's Lieutenant Reed, doctor?" he asked, deliberately laying his spoon back on the table.

A thin line appeared between the doctor's brows. "His condition is unchanged."

"Can I see him?"

Skitra was clearly not pleased. "Mr. Tucker, please continue your meal."

Malcolm crossed his arms in front of his chest, indicating that he wasn't planning on continuing his meal any time soon.

"I don't understand why you won't let me see him. I could talk to him, he might recognize me."

"Mr. Tucker..." Skitra glanced at the soup that Malcolm had barely touched. "Very well. Finish your meal and I will see what I can do."

Malcolm picked up his spoon again, not allowing his relief to show on his face. He didn't feel particularly happy, resorting to blackmail in order to get his wish, but he needed to see Trip.

The soup was gone a lot faster than he had expected. Instead of sending the food back to where it came from, his stomach only lurched a few times, but still, Malcolm was glad when he could finally put the spoon aside.

He watched Skitra as the doctor took away the empty bowl and the folding table.

"Doctor?"

Skitra looked as though he was trying hard not to let his annoyance show. "Very well, Mr. Tucker. Half an hour."

Malcolm knew better than to object to the time limit. Corporal Garton had left a few minutes ago for his lunch break, and it seemed like a good idea to be back in bed before the Corporal returned. He hated the idea of visiting Trip with Garton hanging around in the room.

Carefully, he sat up, wincing when a dull pain caught him at the back of his head. The neck brace prevented any extended movements, but that spot on the back of his head still began to throb whenever Malcolm changed his position.

Skitra helped him off the bed, mindful not to touch his left arm (the doctor had put it in a sling after Garton had grabbed it two days ago, saying that this might indicate even to the Corporal that the arm was broken). Malcolm held on to the bedrail for a few seconds, then nodded at the doctor that he was ready to go.

Taking slow, small steps, Malcolm made his way over to the IC unit. He wasn't going to admit it to the doctor, but staying upright for more than a few minutes still left him dizzy and exhausted. An after-effect of the concussion, he supposed. Or the hairline crack in his skull. Malcolm didn't really care which, as long as the doctor didn't notice.

Watching Skitra punch in the code that would open the door, Malcolm felt apprehension rise at the back of his throat. He wasn't sure if he was ready to do this, to face Trip and see for himself what the injection had done. What would have happened to him if Trip hadn't...

The door slid open and Malcolm swallowed his emotions, discarding them with a mental shrug. Visiting Trip was the least - the very least - he could do.

There were only two beds in the IC unit, one of it empty and surrounded by a white, gauzy curtain. On the other one lay Trip. The head of the bed had been raised so that he sat slightly propped up, able to survey the room. Malcolm was glad to see that he looked clean, and had apparently been given fresh clothes instead of the old and dirty ones.

One of Skitra's nurses, an elderly woman with a thick black braid falling down her back, was sitting on a chair next to the bed. When the door opened, she turned around and Malcolm noticed the relief on her face, followed by surprise when her eyes fell on him.

"Doctor?" she asked, getting up.

"It is alright, Nurse," Skitra said. "Mr. Tucker will only stay for a brief visit." He glanced at a tray next to the bed, and Malcolm saw a plate with a barely touched dish of pasta on it.

"He wouldn't eat any more," said the nurse who seemed to have followed Skitra's gaze as well. "I'm sorry, doctor."

"It is not your fault," Skitra said quietly. "If this continues, however, we will have to hook him up to the IV."

Ignoring both doctor and nurse, Malcolm stepped closer to the bed. Trip had turned his head when the door opened, but his face hadn't changed, not in the slightest. It was still as vacant as it had been two days ago. Empty. As though someone had sucked out his soul and feelings, leaving only an empty shell behind. A shell that was still able to move, blink and swallow and open his mouth, but was still no more than just that - a shell.

"Hey," Malcolm said, swallowing hard to fight the lump in his throat. "It's good to see you, Trip."

No danger in using the nickname, he thought. It wouldn't give away the real name, and Trip might recognize the familiar sound. Trip's eyes focused on Malcolm's face as he spoke, but there was no sign of recognition in them. No indication that he had ever heard his name before.

"It's me, Trip." Malcolm bit down on his lips. Even though he wanted to, he couldn't say his own name aloud. "Do you recognize me?"

Trip stared at him for another moment, then closed his eyes, mumbling something incomprehensible. Not words, although Malcolm wanted to believe that he had said something; it sounded more like random sounds strung together.

"He's not going to recognize you," Skitra's quite voice came from behind. "He'll react to voices and movements, utter a few sounds or sometimes even incoherent words, but he can't communicate. I don't think he is even aware of your presence. Or his own."

Malcolm felt a sudden flash of anger at the doctor's calm tone. He's not a lab rat, he wanted to shout. Something you can inject with a test substance to see how it reacts.

He bit his lip, hard, not sure whether he was holding back a scream or a sob. Ignoring the doctor, he went on talking, forcing his voice to sound calm.

"Trip, I don't know if you can hear me right now, but I want you to know that I'm here. Whenever you need me."

Trip's eyes had opened again, coming to rest on his face.

"That's right," Malcolm said, sitting down on the chair next to the bed. He took Trip's hand which lay limply on the sheets, and squeezed it gently. "You're not alone in this. I'm here."

Trip's eyes traveled down to their joined hands, his face expressionless. Malcolm felt moisture build in the corner of his eyes, but he didn't let go in order to wipe it off. The injustice of it all made him want to scream. Trip had been treated like a piece of dirt all his life, and now that he had finally seen a future for himself, his own people took it all away, turning him into a lifeless doll that wasn't even aware of its own existence.

__

And it should have been you

, the nasty, hateful voice in his head spoke up.

_Should have been you, the lifeless doll, the dribbling idiot, the guy who can't eat without assistance and has to wear diapers so he doesn't wet himself. Should have been you, but you were lucky, weren't you._

Malcolm had no idea how long he had been sitting there. At some point, Trip closed his eyes again, his even breathing indicating that he had fallen asleep, but Malcolm didn't let go of his hand, not until the doctor gently took him by the wrist and pulled him away.

"Let's go," he said. "You need to get back to bed."

Malcolm kept his eyes fixed on the floor on the way out, using his right hand to wipe off the tears before they could trickle down his face. No way he was going to let that bastard Garton see him cry.

The doctor helped him back into bed, touching a panel to dim the lights.

"It might be best if you tried to rest a little," he said. "I can give you something if you-"

"No." Malcolm stared at the hypospray in Skitra's hand, then up at the doctor's face. For a moment, he believed he had never hated anyone more in his life. "I want to be alone."

"As you wish, Mr. Tucker."

Malcolm rolled over onto his right side, facing away from the doctor and closing his eyes. He heard Skitra's steps retreating, metal scratching on metal as the curtain around his bed was closed. Malcolm made sure he was alone, pressing a fist against his mouth to keep any noises inside. And he stayed that way for a long time.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	19. Chapter 18

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback!

Volley (thank you! Yes, I have to admit, I think Soval makes for a nice addition to the Enterprise crew ;) ), trisuns5 (hey, you kept reviewing, thanks :)! Sorry about the short chapter, and keep focusing on happy endings... who knows, it might help ;)!), Gabi (Sicher hat er ihm die richtige Injektion gegeben, und Malcolm muss sich jetzt für den Rest seines Lebens um einen bettlägerigen Trip und die beiden Kinder kümmern... hört sich doch ganz nett an, oder ;)?), stage manager (okay, here we go, more about Trip), Luna (I agree with you about humans in general... sorry you had to wait, but at least you'll get to read several chapters at once :) ), Tata (hmm, this cloning thing is beginning to sound interesting... on the other hand, I just saw "The Island" (great movie, BTW), so maybe not. Wouldn't want my clone killing me and rewriting the story... -worries about her latest train of thought- Anyway, thanks for reviewing, keep telling me what you think :)!), Emiliana Keladry (thank you... and I agree, carelessness can be just as bad as actual cruelty), JadziaKathryn (thanks!... I'll have to admit, I've always had a soft spot for Soval, even in Season 1 ... somehow I just like the guy), Virgo (thank you... maybe things will become a little clearer in this chapter!), Trips Girl (hmmm... we'll see about Trip. So, what did the cats say about this chapter?), Exploded Pen (Thanks for the e-mail, and I'm happy you like the story! Sorry, but I can't answer your questions about Trip... would kill the suspense ;) ), KaliedescopeCat (thank you... yes, death might be better than life as a mindless shell. It's a difficult subject, though), The Libran Iniquity (uh-oh... what a nasty mental image... I've always imagined the guy looking a little like Bones from TOS Enterprise ;). Well, anyway, let's not go there... here comes the Aktualisierung), Maraschino (it would only be fair, wouldn't it? Although life's hardly ever fair, especially in AU universes... well, we'll see. Thanks for reviewing!)

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Chapter 18

Sitting on a chair next to Trip's bedside, Malcolm watched Nurse Chang as she prepared a basin with warm water. He didn't have to ask what she was doing; the shampoo and towel arranged on the table next to Trip's bed told him that she was about to wash her patient's hair. He watched as she slid a pillow under the nape of Trip's neck, propped his head up and set the basin down on the bed behind him. Trip let it happen, his eyes trailing idly across the room. From time to time, they would focus on Chang's or Malcolm's face, resting there for a while before resuming their aimless journey. Their empty expression never changed, but Malcolm still found it hard to accept that Trip should not even be aware of his presence. No matter what the doctor said, Malcolm had seen Trip react to the sound of voices, had seen him reach out and touch Chang's hand when she changed him. He could not believe that it was a mindless living corpse doing these things. He refused to believe it. Somewhere in there, he thought, there was a part of Trip that was still aware of his surroundings, maybe even trying to communicate. And he was determined to stay right here until he understood what Trip wanted to tell him.

Glancing over at the door, Malcolm saw Corporal Garton, no more than a silhouette behind the white privacy curtain that surrounded Trip's bed. Garton had been rather miffed when Skitra allowed Malcolm to stay in the IC unit, insisting on chaining Malcolm's right wrist to the chair he was sitting on. Malcolm didn't care. He had been surprised that the doctor would allow him to see Trip at all, when it was less than a day ago that he had come in here for the first time. In fact, Malcolm had gained the impression that, Vulcan or not, the old doctor was feeling guilty. More than once, he had found Skitra watching him with a strange expression on his face, opening his mouth only to close it again, with the air of a man who can't quite bring himself to speak his mind. Maybe the doctor had been about to apologize, deciding against it when he realized that there was really nothing to say.

Malcolm returned his attention to the bed, watching Chang as she dipped a washcloth into the basin and ran it over Trip's head. Trip had closed his eyes, and Malcolm thought that he had fallen asleep but suddenly Trip's lips curved upward in a smile. Hardly able to believe what he was seeing, he looked up at Chang, who was smiling as well.

"You like that, don't you?" she said to Trip, spreading shampoo on his hair and massaging it in. Trip seemed to relax under her hands, the smile never leaving his face. Chang caught Malcolm's eyes.

"He loves having his hair washed," she said, as if there was nothing unusual about the fact that Trip was actually smiling. "Enjoys the physical contact, I believe."

"But..." Malcolm stared at Trip. "I thought he wasn't aware of his surroundings?"

"Oh, I'm sure he is," Chang said, her smile fading. "He enjoys having company, for one thing, and gets anxious when someone turns off the light. I believe he's afraid of being left alone in the dark. And he's always happy to see you."

Malcolm thought of Trip's never-changing expression, his empty eyes. "How do you know?"

"He can't express his feelings like a normal adult person would," Chang said. She wet the washcloth again and started to rinse the shampoo out of Trip's hair. "He can't tell you that he enjoys your visits and wants you to come back. But..." The washcloth went back into the water, leaving a trail of white bubbles when she lifted it out again. "He seems to calm down when you're here. Crowther and his men, on the other hand, seemed to scare him. He flinched away from them." Chang's expression darkened. "It's not as though he didn't realize that they were pushing him around."

Making sure all traces of shampoo were gone, Chang set the washcloth and basin aside and reached out for the towel. Trip let out a contented sigh when she began to dry his hair, like someone enjoying a relaxing massage.

Malcolm swallowed. "So... he still has feelings?"

"Yes, he does." Her eyes were sad. "Maybe he'd be better off if he didn't. Like this, he'll always feel it when he's treated with cruelty or indifference."

Malcolm opened his mouth, about to ask her if she knew what was going to happen to Trip, back on Earth. If the Joint Forces were planning to send him to a nursing home, or leave it to Lieutenant Reed's nonexistent family to take care of their disabled son. But he never finished the question, interrupted by a sudden wailing of sirens.

"Attention, this is the Captain speaking," Patricks' voice filled the room. "Everyone to their stations, this is not a drill."

Both Chang and Trip had flinched at the sudden noise, and Malcolm craned his neck to see what Garton was doing. The Corporal had left his chair, standing close to the comm unit on the wall. He seemed to be speaking to someone, but his voice was droned out by the alert signal.

Trip let out a frightened whimper, and Malcolm turned back to his friend. To his surprise, Trip's eyes came to rest on his face in an instant.

"It's alright, Trip," Malcolm said, trying to keep his own apprehension out of his voice. "Everything's okay."

Even though the noise and sudden tension still seemed to be frightening him, Trip grew calmer at the sound of Malcolm's voice. His eyes were wide, as if mutely asking what was going on.

"Keep talking to him," Chang said. "Try to calm him down. I'll ask the Corporal what's going on."

She left Trip's bedside, reaching for the curtain, but it was pushed aside before she had even touched it. Ignoring her questions, Corporal Garton strode over to Malcolm's chair and bent down over the handcuff.

"Captain needs you on the bridge, Tucker," he said, pressing a small electronic key against the lock. It opened with a soft hiss. "Get up."

"What's wrong?" Malcolm asked. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Chang stroking the hair out of Trip's forehead, talking to him in a low, soothing voice. "Why does Captain Patricks need me on the bridge?"

Garton pulled him to his feet. "I said move, Tucker. Captain says it's urgent."

Malcolm resisted the urge to ask what he was talking about, realizing that he wasn't going to get any answers from the Corporal.

As he was led over to the door, a thought occurred to him that made him stop in his tracks.

"Is it my ship?" he asked, struggling not to let any trepidation show in his voice. "The Enterprise?"

The Corporal jerked him forward, ignoring Malcolm's question. "Move it."

The look on his face, however, belied his indifferent answer. The muscles in Garton's jaw were working, and Malcolm could easily see that the man was nervous. Worried, even. He bit his lip, casting a brief glance over his shoulder at Trip, who seemed to have calmed down again.

_I'll be back,_ he promised silently, wishing he could say the words aloud. Somehow, he knew, Trip would have heard and even understood what he was telling him._I'll be back. And if it is indeed Enterprise, then maybe there's a chance that I'm going to get you out of here. Both of us._

_------------------_

The trip to the turbolift only took a few minutes, but to Malcolm it felt as if the two corridors between sickbay and the turbolift doors stretched over several kilometers. When the bulkhead closed behind them his legs were trembling, and he had to lean against the wall for support. Walking from his bio bed to the IC unit was one thing, but being dragged along the corridor at pacing speed was bound to leave him shaking and weak. Skitra, of course, had objected to his patient being marched out of sickbay, snapping at Garton that Malcolm was not up to that sort of exertion yet. The Corporal, however, had not been impressed, muttering something about "Captain's orders" and ignoring the doctor's protests.

Malcolm closed his eyes, feeling the wound at the back of his head beginning to throb. If Enterprise was the reason why he was needed on the bridge ("-and what other reason could they have?" the small, optimistic voice at the back of his mind whispered), then he couldn't afford to let down his guard. If he was going to face Captain T'Pol in a minute, who had no idea that "Lieutenant Reed" was lying in a bed in sickbay, then he needed to stay alert and think. And quickly so.

A dig in the ribs startled him out his thoughts.

"Don't go to sleep, Tucker." Garton took his right arm. "We're here."

The doors opened, and Malcolm could barely keep himself from stumbling as the Corporal jerked him forward. His surroundings began to blur, and he blinked hard, his head throbbing worse than ever.

"Jeez, Garton, you could have gotten him a wheelchair or something," Captain Patricks' voice said somewhere to his left. "He looks like he's going to pass out any minute."

"Sorry, Captain." Garton sounded bored.

Malcolm forced himself to breathe deeply until the worst of the dizziness subsided. Patricks took his arm, leading him over to a chair.

"Sit down, Tucker. Your Captain wants to speak to you."

Malcolm allowed himself to be seated, his heart pounding in his chest. This wasn't a trick; the strained tone in Patricks' voice told him that the man was telling the truth. Enterprise had come.

"Captain, they're hailing us again," the communications officer said. "Do you want me to-"

"Wait!" The Captain leaned closer to Malcolm, lowering his voice. "Listen, Tucker, what happened to Lieutenant Reed wasn't my fault. I had my orders and there was nothing I could do. You're going to tell your Captain that you've been treated well."

Patricks obviously meant to sound intimidating, but Malcolm noted a nervous twitch in the corner of his mouth. In the meantime, his vision had cleared up again, and his heart skipped a beat as he looked past Patricks at the main view screen. Enterprise was looming over the small scout vessel like a menacing shadow, reminding him of a Klingon bird of prey. No wonder Patricks was worried. Wildfire's weapons were no match for Enterprise's armory, and neither was her engine.

Malcolm bit his lip. He couldn't allow Patricks to provoke a fight.

"I'm going to tell her the truth," he said quietly. The Captain held his eyes for a few seconds, then turned away.

"Open a channel."

Enterprise disappeared, and a second later T'Pol's face appeared on the screen.

"Lieu-"

"Captain," Malcolm interrupted her, his right hand clenching the armrest of his chair. "I'm sorry Lieutenant Reed couldn't come, but he's... not available at the moment."

T'Pol's left eyebrow twitched, but her dark eyes betrayed no emotion. Malcolm held her gaze, willing her to read his mind. He felt sweat build on his forehead, and hoped that Patricks was going to put it down to his weakened condition.

Come on, Captain...

Her eyebrow slowly returned to its normal position.

"That is unfortunate," she said calmly. "Are you well, Mr. Tucker?"

Malcolm briefly closed his eyes. He could feel his adrenaline rush fading, evoking another bout of dizziness.

"I'm fine," he said, blinking hard. "I-"

"He was hurt when we brought their shuttle aboard," Patricks interrupted hastily. His fingers closed painfully around Malcolm's shoulder. "It was an accident. My doctor had to perform an emergency operation, and he's been under observation in sickbay ever since. Captain, I'm only going to ask you one more time: what exactly do you want?"

T'Pol ignored him as if he had not spoken at all. "Mr. Tucker, can you tell me where Lieutenant Reed is?"

Malcolm nodded. Patricks' fingers dug deeply into his shoulder, but Malcolm ignored the pain and went on.

"They gave him the injection," he said quietly. "He's in sickbay at the moment."

T'Pol's expression didn't change, but Malcolm knew her well enough to see the shock in her eyes. Patricks grabbed his shoulder even harder, obviously resisting the urge to give him a good shake.

"Captain," he said, "I had my orders. I'm sorry about your crewman, but there was nothing I could do. Both of them were treated well; Mr. Tucker can confirm that. Now-"

T'Pol drew herself up in her chair. "Captain Patricks," she interrupted, acknowledging the man's presence for the first time. "You may have come to the conclusion that my decision to come here was not authorized by Starfleet or Joint Forces Command. Still, I wish to settle this matter peacefully if there is any way of doing so. I want both of my crewmen returned to my ship, and I'm holding you responsible for their safety. Do I make myself clear?"

Malcolm stared at her, only now understanding the implications of Enterprise coming to their rescue. Of course, Command couldn't have ordered T'Pol to pursue the Wildfire, but somehow his weary brain had managed to shut out the fact that this was actual mutiny. Threatening a fellow Captain was not only going to cost T'Pol her captaincy, it was going to get her court-martialed. And not only her, but her senior officers as well.

"Captain," he said, "you shouldn't-"

T'Pol cut him off. "I cannot recall taking orders from you, Mr. Tucker," she said, her eyebrows arching. "Captain Patricks, you have half an hour."

"I don't-" Patricks began heatedly, but T'Pol didn't seem inclined to listen. She nodded at someone outside the screen's visual range, and the connection was cut, Enterprise reappearing where her face had been only a second before.

"Captain."

Malcolm turned around and saw Garton coming closer, the man's right hand resting on the holster of his phase pistol. His eyes had narrowed to slits.

"Garton!" Patricks snapped.

"The arrogant bitch never said anything about sending them back in one piece," the Corporal said, drawing his weapon. "Why don't we teach her-"

"Put - that - away!" Patricks wrenched the phase pistol from Garton's grip and threw it to the Corporal's feet. "Are you out of your mind?"

The man stared at him, his chest heaving. "You're going to give in, aren't you?" he asked. "Just like that. I should have known. You're not fit to be a Captain, and I -"

"That's enough, Corporal," Patricks hissed. His forehead had turned white with anger. "You're confined to your quarters until further notice." Garton didn't move, and Patricks took a step towards him. "I said get out!"

With a last hate-filled look, the Corporal turned around and walked to the turbolift. Patricks looked at his bridge crew.

"Is there anyone else who would like to see the ship blown to pieces?" he asked, his voice rising. "Anyone else who'd like to question my orders?"

His officers suddenly seemed very fascinated with their consoles, none of them meeting the Captain's eyes. Patricks' hands clenched to fists.

"Dawson!" he snapped, and the security guard next to the door drew to attention.

"Sir?"

Patricks jerked his chin at Malcolm. "Take him and that idiot down in sickbay to a shuttlepod," he said. "Have someone fly them back to their ship. Anyone got anything to say about that?" he said in a louder tone of voice, addressing his bridge crew who still wouldn't meet his eyes. None of them said a word.

"Great. Now get a move on, Dawson!"

"Aye, sir!" The man stepped closer, pulling Malcolm to his feet. "Move it."

Before the turbolift closed behind them, Malcolm got a last glance of Captain Patricks standing next to his command chair. The man's fingers had closed around the backrest, his knuckles turning white as if he were having a hard time keeping his hands from shaking.

-----------------

The next fifteen minutes went by in a haze. Sitting on a biobed, Malcolm watched as Chang and Skitra got Trip dressed and ready for the flight back to Enterprise. Trip seemed upset by the commotion, refusing to lie passively as he usually did and pulling his hand away when Chang tried to guide it into the sleeve of a sweater.

"Come on!" The nurse seemed nervous herself, and grabbed Trip's wrist a little harder than necessary. "Stop it!"

"No!"

Malcolm froze at Trip's cry of protest. He tried telling himself that he was imagining things - it couldn't be, Trip couldn't have told the nurse to leave him alone - but the word had been clear and articulate. Trip had said "no".

Chang turned around, her eyes wide. "Doctor?"

Skitra was staring at Trip, a strange expression on his face. "It has got to be an automatic response," he said. "He did not want to be touched, and his mind came up with a familiar reaction to an unwanted situation. Fascinating."

"And what are we going to do about it?" Chang asked. "I can't get him dressed if he keeps coming up with those automatic responses."

Skitra ignored her sarcasm. "Mr. Tucker, if you don't mind. I believe we require your assistance."

Malcolm slid off the biobed, his legs wobbling slightly as he walked over to Trip's bed. The painkiller Skitra had injected him with hadn't completely worn off yet, leaving him dizzy and weak.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked.

"Talk to him," Skitra said. "Tell him that everything is alright and that you are both returning to your ship. It will calm him down to hear it from you."

Malcolm stopped short at that. "But he doesn't understand what I'm saying..."

"Just do it," the doctor responded curtly. "Your Captain did not give us much time, and I shouldn't want you to be late."

Malcolm nodded, sitting down on the edge of the bed. If Skitra said this was going to help, then he was certainly not going to argue.

"It's okay," he said, closing his fingers around Trip's hand. "Nothing to worry about. We're going back to Enterprise. But first you need to get dressed." He took the sweater, holding it out to Trip. "Here. We don't want you to catch a cold, right?"

Trip had stopped fidgeting at the sound of Malcolm's voice. His eyes came to rest on the sweater, and after a moment's hesitation he reached out and took it. Behind his back, Malcolm heard Chang's quiet voice: "Another automatic response, doctor?"

"It seems so," Skitra said calmly. "I believe you can finish dressing him, Nurse."

She complied, and to Malcolm's surprise Trip submitted without a sound of protest. While Chang slipped the sweater over Trip's head, Malcolm glanced at Skitra and saw the doctor watching his patient with an expression close to worry on his wrinkled face.

-----------------

Skitra insisted that Malcolm sit in a wheelchair on the way down to the shuttlebay, ignoring his patient's protests that he was fine.

"You are not "fine", Mr. Tucker," he said acidly when Malcolm refused to sit down. "Even by your admittedly vague human standards, "fine" does not include a concussion, a hairline fracture of the skull and a broken arm. Now take a seat or I am going to have to sedate you."

Malcolm found himself too weak to argue and gave in, allowing Chang to push him down the corridor towards the turbolift. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a small voice insisted that he should feel worried, excited or at least relieved that Enterprise had come, but his feelings seemed to have drowned in an overall weariness. His head injury was pounding at the back of his skull, and despite his protests over the wheelchair Malcolm knew that he wouldn't have made it halfway to the turbolift. He didn't even find it within him to decline politely when Chang wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. He was so tired.

Trip stayed silent on the way to the hangar, allowing the doctor to guide him into the lift and back out into the corridors. Ensign Dawson trudged along a few steps behind them. He didn't appear too happy about both doctor and nurse insisting to come along, but seemed to know better than to argue.

The hangar doors opened, and Malcolm awoke with a start. He hadn't even noticed that he had nodded off. Looking around, he saw that like Enterprise, Wildfire had two shuttle pods, standing next to each other on the trapdoor openings in the floor.

"Where's our shuttle?" he asked, looking at Dawson. "Captain T'Pol is going to want it back..."

Dawson shrugged. "Not my problem. Besides, I believe Captain Patricks ordered it to be taken apart for spare parts. Wasn't much more than a pile of rubbish when we took it aboard."

Malcolm opened his mouth, but Skitra cut him off. "Now, Mr. Tucker, we are running short of time. Nurse, please help him climb into the shuttle."

Malcolm shook his head, lifting himself out of the wheelchair and climbing through the hatch before Chang could slip a supporting hand under his arm. Not surprisingly, another dizzy spell ensued and he all but collapsed on the shuttle's rear bench. Through a blur, he saw Skitra guiding Trip through the hatch and seating him on the bench across from him.

"That will be all, Ensign. Dismissed."

Malcolm blinked. The old doctor had returned to the hatch, but instead of climbing back out again, Skitra had one hand on the inside handle as if he were about to close the door.

"Doctor," Dawson said, clearly taken by surprise. "The Captain told me to fly them back to their ship..."

"Well, that is exactly what I am going to do," Skitra responded testily. "As you can see, neither of my patients is any potential danger at the moment. I shall not require your assistance."

"But doctor, you can't fly that thing!" Dawson shook his head, making as if to climb inside. "I've got to-"

"I said dismissed, Ensign." Skitra's voice had turned positively icy. "I went through pilot school just like you did, and believe me, my test results were considerably better than yours. Now step back." He glared at Dawson until the man took a hesitant step backwards. Then he glanced at Chang. "I trust you to keep everything in good order, Mei-Ying."

If the nurse had noticed anything strange about the doctor's tone, then she didn't let it show. "Yes, doctor."

"Good." Skitra closed the hatch. For a moment, he just stood there, regarding Malcolm with a strange expression on his face. Then he opened his medkit and took out a hypospray.

"What-" Malcolm began, but the doctor ignored him.

"Hold still."

Malcolm winced when the cold end of the hypo touched his neck. Its contents emptied themselves into his bloodstream with a soft hiss, and only a few seconds later he felt the pain at the back of his head subside. Whatever the doctor had injected into his neck seemed to wash his weariness away, leaving him more awake than he had felt in days.

The old Vulcan regarded him calmly. "Better?"

"Yes," Malcolm said, involuntarily reaching out to touch the spot where a red-hot spike had been drilling into his skull only a moment before. "What did you do?"

"Just a rather strong analgesic," Skitra replied. "I'd prefer not to give you any more drugs than necessary, but I need you to be able to take the helm. You do know how to fly a shuttle, don't you, Lieutenant?"

Malcolm froze at that, but the Vulcan continued as if he hadn't noticed. "I'd rather prefer not to have to pilot it myself. I believe we would end up colliding with Enterprise's port nacelle, and I do not think Captain T'Pol would take kindly to that sort of damage, would she?"

Malcolm hardly understood what the doctor was saying, his heart racing in his chest. "How... how do you..."

"I've known for quite some time, Lieutenant. But do not worry. If I wanted to betray you, I could have done so long ago."

"But... how?"

The doctor raised an indulgent eyebrow. "Well, for one thing Starfleet officers don't usually show signs of past malnutrition or have whip scars on their back. Besides, Mr. Tucker has had several nightmares during his stay in my sickbay, obviously reliving the events leading up to your capture. He kept calling out for someone named "Malcolm". I believe your name is Malcolm Reed, isn't it?"

Malcolm nodded, still feeling as if he had fallen down the rabbit hole. "But... you said he couldn't speak or..."

"We are running short of time, Lieutenant," Skitra interrupted. "Please, take the helm. I need to talk to your Captain."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	20. Chapter 19

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback, everyone!

BananaTrip (I guess they're going to get into a little trouble themselves...), Trips Girl (yes, he did give in quite easily, that's right. On the other hand, T'Pol can be quite intimidating... Good to hear L.C. liked Chapter 18... if his purring was any indication ;) ), Gabi (Ja, das wäre eine nette Geschichte für sich, allerdings sollte Trip nicht im Wachkoma liegen. Dann könnten sie sich ja gar nicht gegenseitig das Leben schwermachen, und das wäre ja der Witz dabei ;) ), The Libran Iniquity (Mindless cartoons? Malcolm and T'Pol playing poker...hmmm... good idea ;) ), Tata (That's right, T'Pol's going to have to figure something out... and we'll see about Skitra!), volley (thank you, and I agree with you about the hair wash ;) ), JadziaKathryn (yes, two stubborn Vulcans...no, wait, make that three... should be interesting), stage manager (here goes ;)...), trisuns5 (You're very welcome, and I'd like to say thank you myself for letting me know what you think! Keep thinking happy thoughts - it sure worked for Malcolm, didn't it ;)?), MuseUrania (It's always nice to hear I was able to surprise someone... keep telling me what you think!), Emiliana Keladry (Yes, trust a Vulcan to have an ace up his sleeve... thanks for reviewing!), Maraschino (And it's about time they do, I hate for the boys to be away from their ship...), firebirdgirl (Hope you had a nice vacation! Thanks for reviewing three chapters in one go... no cliffie in this one, I promise! ;) ), Exploded Pen ("Kooky old Vulcan" sounds just about right ;) ), RoaringMice ( Thank you! Yes, he might be...), JennMel (They're not -that- bad, are they ;)?)

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Chapter 19

His mind in a daze, Malcolm steered the shuttle out of Wildfire's hangar bay and set a course for Enterprise. In the back, he could hear Skitra talking softly to Trip, his voice too low for Malcolm to understand what he was saying. He bit the inside of his lip, forcing himself to focus on the controls. Skitra's analgesic had taken care of the pain, but it hadn't been able to touch the deep exhaustion at the core of Malcolm's mind, and he found it increasingly difficult to concentrate.

So Skitra had known about their little mix-up comedy. Or had found out when Trip was transferred to the IC unit. Then why hadn't he informed his captain? Or at least told Malcolm that he knew what Trip had done?

Malcolm punched away at the controls to keep himself awake. In the end, it didn't really matter what Skitra knew or what he had told his captain. It didn't even matter that Enterprise had come. Instead of elation, Malcolm only experienced sadness and a touch of anger at the idea that his colleagues had given up their careers for nothing. Their rescue only gave him a small reprieve before Joint Forces Command put an end to the thing, arresting him as soon as Enterprise reached Earth and injecting him with the stuff that was going to wipe out his mind.

_At least you're going to have yourself a roommate in that nursing home, Trip, _Malcolm thought, a crazy part of his mind giggling madly at the idea._ Always look on the bright side of things._

"Lieutenant!"

Skitra's voice cut through his wayward thoughts, and Malcolm startled.

"I believe Enterprise is hailing us," the doctor continued. "We should answer before they get suspicious."

Looking down at the navigation board, Malcolm saw a blinking green light that indicated an incoming call. He pressed a button.

"Reed here."

"This is Captain T'Pol," a familiar voice came through the speaker. "We have scanned a third bio sign on your vessel."

Malcolm heard the mute question in her voice.

"It's alright, Captain," he said. "Dr. Skitra's knows what's going on. He's on our side." _I hope,_ he added in thought.

The old Vulcan had left his place on the rear bench, stepping up to the comm console.

"Captain, I assure you I am only here to get your men back to safety," he said. "I'd appreciate it if you allowed me to come aboard your ship. There is something we need to discuss."

T'Pol paused for a second, and Malcolm could practically see her eyebrow twitch just the tiniest bit.

"Very well," she said then. "Lieutenant, are you sure you are well?"

_Actually, I feel like someone scoured the inside of my skull with a wire sponge._ Malcolm bit his lip. He knew T'Pol wasn't only asking about his well-being; her emphatic tone told him that she still had her doubts about Skitra's presence, and wanted to know if he could be trusted.

"Everything's fine, Captain," he answered. "Permission to come aboard, ma'am?"

This time she did not hesitate. "Permission granted, Lieutenant."

The channel closed, and Malcolm felt a hand coming to rest on his shoulder.

"If I may say so, Lieutenant, you do not look well. Do you need another analgesic?"

Malcolm shook his head. His thoughts were fuzzy enough as it was, not to speak of the distracting noise at the back of his mind that seemed to grow louder and die away like a mad siren only he could hear. "Thanks, doc, but I'd rather go without."

"As you wish."

Nevertheless, the doctor kept hovering next to his chair, watching him closely. Malcolm wanted to tell him that he should go and look after Trip, but he didn't trust himself to speak and navigate at the same time. He went through the familiar docking maneuvers like an automaton, barely finding the strength to feel relieved when he felt the grip arm latch on to the shuttle's outer hull to pull them into the hangar. The controls merged to a mass of blinking lights before his eyes, and he had to blink hard to regain a clear vision.

"Lieutenant..."

Malcolm shook his head, brushing off the doctor's hand. Not another bloody injection, his brain felt like a big pile of mush as it was.

A shudder ran through the shuttle, and he swayed in his chair. Somewhere, a klaxon sounded, announcing that the hangar had filled with air again. Malcolm heard Skitra talking and realized that the doctor had returned to the rear benches, calming Trip who seemed agitated by the noise and changed surroundings.

"It's alright," he heard him say. "Nothing to worry about..."

The buzzing at the back of his mind was steadily increasing in volume, and Malcolm could barely make out the doctor's words through the noise.

"Come... don't... it's alright..."

Then the hatch opened and Skitra turned around, straightening himself up. "Captain T'Pol."

Malcolm blearily stared at him, his mind refusing to make sense of what was going on. The Captain. Yes, that was right. She had come to meet them. Needed his report.

With a tremendous effort, he managed to push himself into a standing position. A second or two he swayed, threatening to fall back into his chair, but in the end he managed to stay upright. Taking slow, tiny steps, he made his way to the open hatch. Archer and T'Pol were standing next to the shuttle, the Captain's eyebrows rising when she caught sight of him.

"Lieutenant," she said.

"Captain." Malcolm pulled his face into what felt like a painful grimace. "It's good to be back."

He swayed again, the noise in his head rising to an unbearable drone. Then, all of a sudden, the hangar floor seemed to rush towards him, and Malcolm was barely aware of Archer's arms catching him before the world around him dissolved into nothingness.

------------------

He woke to the sound of low voices talking nearby. His body seemed to be floating on air, a sure sign that he had several dozen milligrams of potent painkiller in his bloodstream. Malcolm kept his eyes closed, bathing in the feeling of being completely pain free for the first time in days. He supposed that there were at least two or three gruesome alien creatures working their healing effect on him right now, but, unlike Dr. Skitra, Phlox did believe in the usefulness of analgesics.

Malcolm couldn't remember being taken to sickbay, but he surmised that he must have passed out at some point. He did remember flying back to Enterprise... something about Skitra and Trip... but he couldn't recall exactly what had happened. Very likely it was something he should worry about, but his sleepy brain refused even the notion of wearing itself out trying to remember. No, all he wanted to do was rest... float in this wonderful state of pain free drowsiness and think of absolutely nothing at all.

The voices grew louder, and Malcolm wished they would go away. He couldn't go back to sleep if they kept talking; the noise broke through his weariness and pulled him back to reality. And reality was a place he was planning to avoid for at least another few hours.

"...is awake."

Malcolm caught the end of Phlox's sentence, and sighed.

_No,_ he thought,_ I'm not awake. And I don't want to open my eyes. Or move. Or talk. I only want to go back to sleep._

Steps came closer, and the curtain rustled when someone pulled it aside. Malcolm breathed deeply and evenly, his eyes still closed, knowing fully well that he couldn't fool Phlox. After all those years, the doctor knew all the little tricks in Malcolm's book, and vice versa.

"Lieutenant, I know that you aren't sleeping."

Well, a man can try, can't he.

Reluctantly, Malcolm opened his eyes and blinked when he saw one Denobulan and two Vulcan faces staring down at him. Phlox smiled, his strange bright eyes alight with amusement.

"Welcome back, Lieutenant."

Malcolm licked his lips, only now realizing how dry and cracked they felt. He cleared his throat.

"Captain," he said. His voice sounded as if he were just recovering from a weeklong head cold. "Doctors. I'm sorry."

He wasn't quite sure what exactly he was apologizing for, but for some reason felt that an apology was in order. Maybe it was the worried expression in T'Pol's eyes.

The Captain glanced at Phlox. "Doctor?"

"Don't worry, Captain." The Denobulan smiled. "I believe the Lieutenant is still somewhat out of it, but he should be returning to full awareness within the next few minutes. The analgesics," he added unnecessarily.

"I'm afraid the exertions of the last few hours have weakened Lieutenant Reed's condition even further," Skitra joined in from the other side of the bed. "I regret putting him under such stress, but there was no one else to pilot the shuttle."

Malcolm didn't catch Phlox's answer, frowning as he tried to drag his gray cells out of the haze of sedation. Skitra calling him "Lieutenant Reed" was wrong; come to think of it, the mere fact that the Vulcan doctor was here on Enterprise was not right. And while he was at it...

"Where's Trip, Captain? What..." His voice failed, and he coughed. "What's going on?"

T'Pol's left eyebrow rose a few millimeters. "Maybe explanations should wait until you are feeling better, Lieutenant."

Malcolm shook his head. "No disrespect, ma'am, but I'd like to know what's going on. Why isn't Dr. Skitra back on his ship?"

"Because I'd very likely find myself under arrest if I were to return to the Wildfire," Skitra answered, seeming unperturbed by the idea. "I'm grateful that Captain T'Pol allowed me to stay. I must say, it is rather refreshing to be in a sickbay that is equipped with more than three bio beds."

Phlox beamed, obviously sympathizing with his fellow doctor's enthusiasm. Malcolm frowned and decided to stick with simple matters for the moment.

"Where's Trip, doctor? Is he alright?"

"But of course, Lieutenant. Do not worry yourself."

The Denobulan pulled back the privacy curtain around Malcolm's bed, then walked over to the adjoining bed and opened its curtains as well.

"He's right here, sleeping."

Malcolm craned his neck, feeling his stiff muscles protest as he did so. Trip was indeed sleeping; his head was slightly turned to one side, his face relaxed, hands resting on the pale blue blanket he was covered with. A sting went through Malcolm's chest at the peaceful sight. Sleeping, Trip looked as if there were nothing wrong with him at all.

"He should be waking up in about forty-eight hours," he heard Skitra say. "As I said, the procedure is going to take a while."

"Of course." Phlox didn't seem to find anything unusual about the Vulcan's remark. Only then did Malcolm notice the two tiny scanning devices on Trip's forehead, and the thin tubes leading away from his arms to a device next to the bed. The liquid inside the tubes was red.

Malcolm tried to push himself into a sitting position, ignoring his weary body as it protested against the movement. "What are you doing?" he asked. "Will someone finally tell me what's going on?"

"Calm yourself, Lieutenant." T'Pol reached out and adjusted the bed so Malcolm sat propped up, supported by the mattress. "There is no need to become agitated." She exchanged a look with the Vulcan doctor. "I believe Dr. Skitra can answer at least a few of your questions."

"Indeed." Skitra clasped his hands behind his back. "Lieutenant, I believe I owe you an explanation. Several of them, to be exact."

_No kidding._ Malcolm bit down on his lips before the words could slip out, and waited for the doctor to continue.

"You will have come to the conclusion, Lieutenant, that it was me whom Captain Patricks ordered to give Mr. Tucker the injection."

Malcolm nodded. He had no idea what the doctor was getting at.

"When the Captain first informed me of my orders, I told him that as a Vulcan and a Healer I could not perform that kind of procedure. He would not listen to me, though, and so I saw only one logical way of action."

"You gave him the injection, I know." Malcolm pressed his lips together. He wasn't in the mood to listen to long-winded explanations or excuses.

Skitra's eyebrows twitched. "I said logical way of action, Lieutenant. Obviously, I had to find another way of carrying out the Captain's orders without compromising my professional ethics."

Malcolm stared at him. "What... what did you do?"

"There is a substance very similar to the one I was supposed to use, a Vulcan phytotoxin. Like the actual poison, it causes amnesia and a catatonia-like stupor, but only temporarily so. How long the patient remains without memory depends on the dose he or she is given. I wasn't really sure how a human metabolism would react, but I did not have time to do any extended research. There should not be any problems, however. Except for a few minor indispositions, I expect Mr. Tucker to be up and about within a few days."

Malcolm said nothing, trying to reassemble Skitra's words in his head until they made some sense. Trip wasn't going to be "up and about" - how could he? His mind was gone, destroyed by the poison.

"How?" Malcolm asked. "I mean, how can you know that?"

Skitra raised an eyebrow. "I may safely assume, I hope, that you are not doubting my medical expertise, Lieutenant? As I said, the symptoms are only temporary. The effects of the injection were already beginning to wear off when we boarded the shuttle, so it was high time that we left."

Malcolm looked over at Trip. More than anything else, he wanted to believe Skitra - Trip had been different when Malcolm had seen him before the flight, that was for sure. Still, after the endless days on the Joint Forces vessel, chained to his bed or a chair and watching Trip being cared for by the nurses, the doctor's words seemed like a cruel joke.

"I don't understand," he said. "I..." He trailed off, not sure what he had been about to say. For some reason, Phlox was smiling down at him, and Malcolm felt a pang of anger. There they were, grinning and saying things like "professional ethics" and "temporary symptoms", as if it were only a big joke to them. As if the last few days had never happened at all. A flick of Skitra's magic wand, and everything was all right. Silly him, to worry about Trip and tear himself apart because he had ruined another person's life. It's only _temporary_, you see, Lieutenant? Fooled _you_, didn't we?

"If that's true-" His voice failed, and he had to swallow before he could continue. "If that's true, then why didn't you tell me? Why did you leave me thinking that he was..." He couldn't go on, and turned his face away.

"Lieutenant." Skitra's voice had become very gentle. "I understand that you are upset. But I couldn't risk telling anyone, not even you or Nurse Chang. It would have been to dangerous."

Malcolm gave no answer, still facing away from the group assembled around his bed. He remembered how empty Trip's eyes had been, the very essence erased from their depths. Now, looking at the sleeping man in the bed next to his, he felt a flicker of hope surface within his mind. If Skitra was telling the truth - and why shouldn't he be, why not indeed - then Trip was going to wake up again. Really wake up instead of simply returning to consciousness.

Something warm trickled down his cheek, and Malcolm raised a hand to wipe it off without realizing what he was doing.

"What... what are those tubes for?" he asked. He had to be absolutely sure that Trip was going to be fine.

"They're filtering the last remains of the toxin out of Mr. Tucker's blood," Skitra answered. "It will speed up the recovery process."

Malcolm said nothing. He couldn't think of anything to say. Somewhere above his head, he heard T'Pol's voice, although he wasn't really listening to what she was saying.

"I'm curious, doctor. What if the toxin had worn off while Mr. Tucker was still in your sickbay?"

"In that case, I would have had no choice but to trust in Mr. Tucker's acting abilities. It would have been difficult, though. I am glad you arrived when you did, Captain."

"Captain," Phlox interrupted, and Malcolm turned his head back to find the Denobulan doctor watching him worriedly. "I believe we should continue this conversation at another time. The Lieutenant needs rest."

T'Pol bowed her head. "Of course, doctor."

She turned around, but before she could leave Malcolm called her back. "Captain!"

T'Pol turned her head, raising an eyebrow. "You heard the doctor, Lieutenant. You should rest."

Malcolm swallowed. "What about Enterprise, ma'am? Are we...?" ... _on the run_, he had wanted to say, but for some reason the words wouldn't come out.

"We are on our way to Earth," T'Pol said calmly. "Do not worry, Lieutenant. I will explain everything in detail when you are feeling better."

Her tone allowed no argument. Malcolm watched the sickbay doors close behind her, feeling somewhat left out. It seemed that everyone knew perfectly well what was going on, but couldn't be bothered to tell him. He looked up at Phlox, who was still wearing his "feeling-better-already-aren't-we" smile.

"Doctor?"

"Like the Captain said, Lieutenant. You are in dire need of rest, and I suggest that you go back to sleep. I wouldn't want to give you any more sedatives."

"On the other hand," Skitra said, regarding Malcolm thoughtfully, "I find it quite effective to keep my patients sedated most of the time."

"Do you?" Phlox asked, with the air of a man who has suddenly gained a completely new perspective. Both doctors scrutinized him in a way that Malcolm found to be slightly unnerving.

"Actually, I would not have been able to finish my paper on the Tyrellian influenza if I had not kept my patients quiet and compliant."

Phlox considered, his round face assuming a dreamy expression. "Well, if you put it that way..."

Malcolm swallowed nervously. "If you don't mind, doctor, I'd rather try and go to sleep on my own."

Phlox raised his eyebrows. "If you insist..."

Malcolm nodded quickly, and, to demonstrate his good intentions, lay back on his pillow and closed his eyes.

"Very well. I'll be back later to check on you, Lieutenant."

Malcolm risked a peek to check if they had really gone, and saw Phlox drawing the curtain close, exchanging a knowing smile with the Vulcan doctor as he did so.

_Two bloody quacks,_ Malcolm thought, quickly closing his eyes again before either of the doctors could catch him not resting._ That's all we needed._

But he couldn't find it within him to feel really annoyed. Actually, Malcolm noticed as he began to drift off to sleep, for the first time in weeks he found himself feeling strangely... happy.

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	21. Chapter 20

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for reviewing!

Tata (thank you! There'll be more about the situation with the Joint Forces at the end of this chapter), JadziaKathryn (Yes, that's Malcolm, all right ;). Thanks for reviewing!), stage manager (thanks, and you'll get more Trip in this chapter ;)!), volley (Yes, he is... you know me, I'm a sucker for happy endings ;) ), The Libran Iniquity (Disney, right. Although I have to admit I've never seen "Alice in Wonderland"... yes, Malcolm better watch out for people sneaking up behind him with a hypospray in their hand ;)... nice mental image, though), Gabi (Stimmt, Archer kann Malcolm sicher auch viel männlicher auffangen als T'Pol -g- Natürlich hast du deine Spuren hinterlassen... die ganze "Sev"-Sache war schließlich dein Verdienst. Muss man auch mal sagen :)...), MuseUrania (Yes, poor Malcolm - he barely escaped the JF, and now the doctors have it in for him ;)...), trisuns5 (Glad you like Skitra... he was a lot of fun to write, kind of like a Vulcan Bones McCoy ;) ), Trips Girl (Birthday present? I know I'm a little late, but anyway - Happy Birthday! So, how're the cats doing? Mine brought me a dead mouse this morning... ew ;) ), Emiliana Keladry (Yes, it was time for things to calm down a little... thanks for reviewing!), Maraschino (Yeah, two doctors on Enterprise, at least temporarily... poor Malcolm ;)! ), Exploded Pen (I didn't torture either of the boys in this chapter (well, a little Malcolm tortureat the beginning, but that doesn't count), so the Jedi mind control must work... scary thought ;) ), Rinne (I'm glad you've enjoyed it so far - please let me know what you think of the rest!)

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Chapter 20

"And now stretch your arm, Lieutenant, like this."

Malcolm watched Phlox demonstrate the movement, his arm tingling like pins and needles from their previous exercises. In a feeble imitation of Phlox' example, he extended his arm so that it was bent at a 100° angle.

"I said stretch, Lieutenant! Your muscles can't recover if you don't keep at it!"

Malcolm gritted his teeth. "I'm trying, Doctor, but it just doesn't - aarrgh!"

Pain flared up in his tortured muscles, and for a moment all he saw were bright, dancing spots in front of his eyes. Phlox, letting go of his now-straightened arm, clucked in disapproval.

"Now, now Lieutenant, I'm sure it didn't hurt that bad. Let's try again, this time without my help, hm?"

"Some help," Malcolm muttered, but obediently stretched his arm again, finding that it hurt a little less than the first time. Or at least that was what he told himself.

"How often do I have to do it?" he asked, trying not to sound too pathetic. Phlox patted his shoulder, wearing a smile he seemed to be preserving especially for physiotherapy sessions with unreasonable patients.

"Keep at it, Lieutenant. Dr. Skitra asked me to meet him for dinner, but I'll be back in a short while to check on your progress."

Malcolm watched him leave, and almost expected to hear him humming to himself. Glumly, he set about stretching his arm a third time, thinking that somewhere deep down all doctors seemed to have a sadistic streak. Or maybe it was just revenge for having to listen to their patients' moaning and groaning all day.

Again, pain shot through his arm, and Malcolm sucked in a sharp breath. Now that his muscles were getting used to the exertion, it did hurt less than before, but that didn't mean it felt like butterflies and roses. Rather like someone piercing his skin with very sharp needles, actually.

Trying to ignore the cries of protest from his muscles, Malcolm looked away from his arm and across at Trip's bed. The privacy curtain was half-drawn, but Malcolm didn't have to look at Trip's sleeping form to know that he was still deep in drug-induced oblivion. During the last day and a half, Trip had barely ever moved, let alone made a sound. Only the bio monitor above his head indicated that he was still alive; that, and the bright red blood flowing through the tubes that were connected to the filtering device. Phlox and Dr. Skitra, however, seemed confident that everything was just fine, and Malcolm saw no reason to doubt their expertise. After all, Trip was only sleeping, not gazing emptily into space.

In the meantime, the agony in his muscles had eased off to a dull throb, and Malcolm continued to stretch his arm and pull it back to his chest. Physiotherapy or no, it was nice to be rid off that bloody cast. Maybe, in a day or so, he would be able to go back to his quarters, if Phlox allowed it.

A soft beeping caught his attention, and Malcolm glanced at the screen over his bed to check if he had somehow set off one of the alarms (he had done that before by moving around too much when he was supposed to be resting). Then he realized that the sound wasn't coming from his bed at all.

His mouth had suddenly gone strangely dry. Malcolm slid off his biobed, careful not to jostle his aching arm, and walked on bare feet over to Trip's bed where the alarm had gone off. As he pulled back the curtain, he saw that Trip was no longer resting quietly, but was shifting, turning his head from one side to the other.

"Trip!"

Malcolm laid a hand on the other man's arm. Trip sighed, murmuring incomprehensible words, and it took Malcolm a moment to realize that he was talking Kareedian. He tightened his grip on Trip's arm.

"It's okay, Trip." Malcolm tried for a calm tone of voice. "Everything's alright."

_"K'veh sa'ari!"_Trip's eyes flew open, and Malcolm felt a slight tugging as the other man tried to free his arm."Let... let me go!"

The expression in Trip's eyes came close to panic, and Malcolm let go, torn between dismay at Trip's obvious fear, and excitement. Trip had spoken - not incoherent words that he wasn't even aware of himself, but a real sentence. And despite their panicked expression, his eyes were no longer empty, but awake and very aware of Malcolm's presence.

"It's alright, Trip," he repeated. "It's me, Malcolm. I'm not going to hurt you."

Trip stared at him, and Malcolm saw the fear in his eyes turn into confusion.

"M-Malcolm?"

Malcolm nodded, smiling. "That's right."

Trip frowned. "You were hurt."

Again, Malcolm nodded. "But I'm feeling a lot better now."

Trip closed his eyes, as if he needed a moment to digest the new situation. Then he looked back at Malcolm.

"They... they gave me an injection..."

Carefully, Malcolm returned his hand to Trip's arm, and this time, the other man did not flinch away. "I know. You... haven't been yourself for a while, but you're going to be fine."

Trip shook his head. "I don't understand." His eyes traveled down to his arms, widening when he became aware of the tubes. "What... what are these for?"

Some of the panic had returned to his voice, and Malcolm realized in an instant that Trip had probably never seen an IV before. He caught Trip's hand before he could pull out the plugs.

"Don't, Trip, these are intravenous catheters. They're for filtering the poison out of your blood."

Trip eyed the implants suspiciously, but he didn't try to pull them out again. "Okay."

Seeing that Trip was still rather tense, Malcolm continued. "We're back on Enterprise, Trip. Captain T'Pol came for us. We're on our way to Earth."

Trip frowned. "But... what about the Joint Forces?"

Malcolm hesitated. He still had trouble coming to terms with the things T'Pol had told him about: the reconstructed archive files, messages that had been sent to the Orion Raiders so many years ago, and 'Command's attempts to cover up what had happened no matter at what cost. He had lain awake for most of the night, trying to understand the things the Captain had explained to him in a quiet, unemotional voice, trying to wrap his mind around the idea. At some point he had fallen asleep, only to wake up again and find himself as confused as he was before. Malcolm supposed it was going to take a long time until he fully understood exactly why JF Command had wanted him disposed of.

He shook his head. "I believe they've got other things to worry about right now."

He noticed Trip's inquiring look, and said the words he had come to loathe during the last two days. "I'll explain later."

Trip regarded him for another moment or so, then raised a hand and pinched the bridge of his nose. His body language told Malcolm that he was tired, exhausted, and still more than a little confused. No surprises there; Malcolm guessed that the last thing Trip remembered was Skitra approaching him with a hypospray in his hand. No wonder he had panicked.

Malcolm noticed Trip licking his lips in an unsuccessful attempt to moisten them.

"Would you like some water?" he asked.

Trip nodded, and Malcolm padded over to his bedside table, returning with a glass in his hand.

"Here." He handed the glass to Trip.

"Thank you." Trip raised his head and leaned forward so he could guide the glass to his lips. Before he could take a sip, however, the IV tubes got in the way and some of the water landed on the bed sheets.

"Wait," Malcolm said. "Let me."

He straightened the tubes so that the flow was even again, then took the glass, supporting the back of Trip's head with his left hand and holding the glass to the other man's lips.

"There you go."

Trip took a few careful sips, swishing the water in his mouth before he swallowed. Malcolm watched him, shuddering inwardly when he thought of what a mean taste the combination of sleeping for two days and being pumped full of drugs must leave in your mouth. After a few more sips Trip indicated that he had had enough, and Malcolm stood the glass on Trip's bedside table.

"Feel better?"

Trip smiled, although the expression was a little strained. "Yes. Thank you."

Reaching out behind himself, Malcolm drew himself a chair and took a seat at Trip's bedside. His arm was still throbbing, protesting against the exertion he had put it through, and he cradled it closer to his chest.

"Are you alright?" Trip asked quietly.

Malcolm nodded. "I'm fine."

His answer was met with silence, and Malcolm looked up to find Trip's eyes resting on him. Only then did he realize that Trip's question had not been about his aching arm.

"I'm alright, Trip." He paused. It wasn't quite the truth; not really. Oh, his injuries were healing fine, and except for an extended physiotherapy program the worst part of the road to recovery lay behind him. Not to mention the small fact that he was safe, no longer having to worry about the Joint Forces' persecution. Malcolm supposed all of this could be called fine. But it was not how he felt inside.

"You're angry with me," Trip stated. His voice was very calm, but Malcolm jumped as if he had shouted.

"No! Why would I..." He trailed off when he suddenly recognized the truth of what Trip was saying. It was true, he was _not_ all right, he was angry; with himself, with everyone else, with life in general and even with Trip, although he knew that he was being unjust and bitter. But the feeling was there, and Trip had recognized it for what it was before Malcolm had even become aware of it himself.

He met Trip's eyes, at a loss what to say. "I... it's just..." He shook his head, hating himself for even trying to voice these feelings. It didn't seem right in the face of what Trip had done for him, when all he should be feeling was gratitude and relief. But Trip expected an answer, and Malcolm knew he could not brush him off with a platitude. "It's just that... I wish you hadn't... you hadn't given up your life just like that. For me. I'm not angry, but I... why would you do such a thing, Trip? When they came to give you the injection, why didn't you tell them the truth?"

It came out like an accusation and Malcolm winced, realizing how he must sound. Whining, ungrateful. Not worthy.

"I wanted to," Trip said, so quietly that Malcolm had to strain his ears to understand him. "Just before the Vulcan injected me with the poison, I wanted to tell them that I'm not Lieutenant Reed." He looked away, but not before Malcolm saw the shame in his eyes. "But I couldn't. I was too afraid when he came at me with the hypospray. I was so terrified, it was as if my mind had gone completely blank. But..." He closed his eyes. "At that moment... if I had been able to... I would have told them."

Malcolm laid a hand on Trip's arm, waiting until the other man turned his face back to look at him. "I wish you had," he said then. "I'm not going to lie and say that I wasn't terrified of them finding out that I wasn't Charles Tucker." He forced himself to go on, determined to dig to the very roots of this, leaving no half-truths between them. "Often I couldn't sleep, thinking of what was going to happen if they found out. After... after I'd seen you, I was even more terrified at the idea. I hated myself for thinking that way, and sometimes... sometimes I was angry with you. For letting them do such a thing to you when it should have been me." He held Trip's eyes, hoping his clumsy way of expressing himself would still get across his next point. "Your life is not worth less than mine. And you have two children to take care of. If anyone should have been lying in that IC unit, it should have been me."

Trip merely shook his head. Suddenly, unexpectedly, Malcolm found himself raising his voice.

"And why not? Because it was your duty to protect me? Because I'm the master?"

He bit his lip immediately after the last word had slipped out, feeling his cheeks flush with shame. He had no right to say such a thing.

Not able to meet Trip's eyes, he turned away. "Trip, I'm sorry. I..."

"Malcolm..."

Malcolm looked back at Trip, astonished to find a smile on the other man's face.

"Just shut up, will you?"

Malcolm stared. And stared some more. Then he closed his mouth again.

"Good." Trip was still smiling. "Because I want you to listen to me. Maybe what I did was stupid, and maybe I would have told them the truth if I hadn't been too scared to think, I don't know. But when I told Captain Patricks that I was Lieutenant Reed I wasn't thinking about duty. I was thinking that I couldn't let my friend die. And you would have died. So I had no choice. Does that answer your question?"

Malcolm opened his mouth and closed it again, barely aware that he was doing a pretty good goldfish imitation. "I... I guess so," he managed finally.

Trip nodded solemnly. "You know," he said, "I hate to say so, but as a master you're a hopeless case, anyway."

Malcolm was about to do the goldfish again, but suddenly he felt a smile tug at the corner of his mouth. He couldn't help the chuckles that escaped him, and saw Trip grinning as well. The sound of their joint laughter seemed to wash away his anger, leaving only contentment and a slight sense of wonder behind. No more than a few days ago, he had been in hell, unable to cope with the combined physical and emotional pain that seemed to drain him of his will to live. Now, however... he might not be at his best at the moment, and would not be for some time to come, but he was feeling all right. If only for the time being, he was feeling really, truly all right.

He smiled. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Trip nodded, his grin turning into a more serious expression. "It was meant as one."

Malcolm reached out and laid a hand on Trip's arm, squeezing slightly before he let go again. Trip smiled at him, then glanced at the glass of water.

"Would you...?"

"Of course."

Malcolm helped him drink some more, careful not to jostle the tubes connected with Trip's arms. He couldn't help but notice the way Trip's cheekbones stood out, or the tendons on the back of his hands each of which was clearly visible under the skin. Being too thin to begin with, Trip had lost more weight than he could afford.

"I believe I've got some messages to relate to you," Malcolm said, placing the glass back on the table and smiling at Trip. Discussions about the details of his friend's less-than-perfect condition could wait until Phlox was back. "We got a call from Earth yesterday."

Trip propped himself up on his elbows. "Sara and Sammy?"

"They're fine," Malcolm said, seeing the worried expression in Trip's eyes. "A little disappointed that they couldn't talk to you in person, of course. But they were happy to learn that you're going to be alright. As were your parents." He picked up the padd that Phlox had left on Trip's bedside table. "Sara and Sammy sent you get-well cards. Here."

He switched on the display, and together they looked at the two drawings. One of them was very neatly executed, depicting a dark-skinned boy and girl who were smiling and holding something which Malcolm assumed were ice-cream cones. The caption read "Love and kises, Sara", in carefully drawn pencil letters. The other drawing was quite the opposite, a wild bunch of lines and the occasional remotely human-like shape with random appendages sticking out of them. The caption had been squeezed into a corner, written in experienced handwriting: "We couldn't quite fit everything that is going on in here into a few lines, but Sammy is looking forward to telling you himself when you come home. Please get better, Trip, and remember that we love you. Your mother and father"

Mrs. Tucker had been reluctant to leave a written message, but after Malcolm had assured that it was alright she had added the few lines to Sammy's picture before sending away the electronic copy. Out of the corner of his eye, Malcolm saw Trip mouthing the words as he read the message. His face was absentminded, eyes tracing the letters and drawings.

"They asked me to tell you that the kids are doing fine," Malcolm said when Trip looked up again. "Sammy caught the flu a week ago, but he's up and about by now. Your parents took both kids to see a doctor, and she said it will take a while for their metabolism to get completely used to the new environment. But with Phlox's vaccinations there should be no problems."

Trip nodded and glanced back down at the pictures, his face a mixture of affection and another emotion Malcolm could not quite identify.

"That's good to hear."

"Trip?" Malcolm asked carefully.

Trip raised his head. "It's just... " He hesitated. "I don't even know my parents, and they're doing all of this to help me... I don't know how I can ever repay them."

Malcolm shook his head. "I don't think you have to, Trip."

_Actually, _he thought, remembering Mr. and Mrs. Tucker's urgent questions how Trip was doing_, I believe if you even mentioned such a thing to them, they'd smack you on the head and tell you to stop being stupid._

Trip still didn't look convinced, but he was interrupted by the sickbay doors sliding open before he could say anything. Malcolm half-turned around on his chair, and saw Captain T'Pol enter, followed by the two doctors. T'Pol's eyebrows shot up when she looked past Malcolm at Trip.

"Mr. Tucker. It is good to see you awake."

Phlox and Skitra took this as a cue to hurry to Trip's bedside, the Vulcan doctor checking the monitor and filtering device while Phlox interrogated his patient.

"How do you feel, Mr. Tucker? Any headaches? Feelings of dizziness?"

Trip ignored the doctor's questions, staring at Skitra as if he were seeing a ghost. "What is he doing here?" he asked, and pulled his arm away when the Vulcan reached out to check the implants. "Leave me alone!"

Malcolm opened his mouth, but Skitra stopped him with the tiniest of headshakes. He clasped his hands behind his back, moving away so Trip could see that he meant no harm.

"I understand your fears, Mr. Tucker, but I assure you that there is an explanation for my actions aboard the Wildfire. I never meant to do you any harm."

Trip frowned at him, clearly not believing a word of it.

Phlox picked up the thread. "Dr. Skitra risked a lot when he used a different substance that wouldn't do irreversible damage to your mind. I believe he deserves to be trusted."

"A different substance?" Trip turned to the Vulcan.

"Indeed," Skitra said. "A Vulcan toxin that causes temporary amnesia. I am sorry that I left you believing it was the real poison, but I could not say anything in Captain Patricks' presence."

Trip stared at him, digesting what he had heard. "So you saved my life," he said then. "Why?"

Skitra raised an eyebrow. "I'm a Healer, Mr. Tucker. It was the logical thing to do." He turned back to the monitor, though not without another look at Trip. "May I continue my examination?"

Trip nodded. "Thank you," he said quietly, and Skitra acknowledged it with a silent nod.

Malcolm watched the doctors fuss over Trip, readjusting the filtering device and checking the catheters. Trip seemed to have relaxed again, and Malcolm suddenly became aware of how cold his bare feet had grown. He was about to return to his own bed when T'Pol touched his arm.

"Lieutenant, I'd like to talk to you for a minute."

"Of course, ma'am." He followed her into Phlox' tiny office at the far end of the room. Once inside, T'Pol closed the door and gestured at a chair.

"Please, take a seat."

Malcolm complied, resisting the urge to say that he'd rather remain standing. He knew it would get him nowhere.

"Thank you for taking the time, Lieutenant." T'Pol clasped her hands behind her back. "I did not think it advisable to tell you in front of Mr. Tucker, considering that he has only just woken up."

Malcolm straightened himself. "Is there something wrong, ma'am?"

"If you are referring to "wrong" meaning "out of the ordinary", then I believe there is, Lieutenant. However, there is no need to worry yourself. You and Mr. Tucker are safe."

Malcolm frowned. "I'm afraid I don't understand, ma'am."

T'Pol regarded him calmly. "You will remember that I sent my findings about the Joint Forces' dealings with the Orions to Admiral Selin at JF Headquarters."

Malcolm nodded. "You told me so."

T'Pol acknowledged this with a tilt of her head. "After receiving my message, Admiral Selin conferred with several members of his Command staff, and they decided to release the information to the media." She pulled out a small data chip and inserted it into the monitor on Phlox's desk. "This is a copy of the latest news broadcast on Earth."

The screen came to life, and the voices of an angry crowd filled the room. Malcolm saw a mass of people crowded in front of a building, some of them holding up signs or makeshift banners. Their shouting was too loud for him to understand the words, but it took only a brief look at their contorted faces to catch the drift. A stone whizzed through the air, and one of the windows shattered, soon followed by another. Over the noise from the crowd, the newscaster commented that the police had only barely been able to keep the mob from forcing their way into JF Headquarters. "Several high-ranking Joint Forces officers only narrowly escaped a lynching, not least because some of the security forces simply refused to stop the crowd from entering the building."

T'Pol touched a button and the image froze, stopping several of the flying stones in mid-air. "I'm showing you this so you get an idea of the current situation. I believe humans would describe it as chaotic."

"I'll say." Malcolm glanced back at the screen. Seeing the mad fury on those frozen faces, he felt a touch of sympathy for the people inside the building. The mob wouldn't care, but not all of them were guilty. "So what's going to happen now?"

T'Pol raised an eyebrow. "Earth's Central Government has arrested several of the officers involved, and has confiscated all JF data recordings to see if they correspond with the evidence I sent." She paused. "Four of the main suspects disappeared a few hours after the media had broadcast the news. The government is looking for them all over the planet."

"Singer?" Malcolm asked quietly.

"Indeed. He and three of his fellow officers managed to escape before they could be arrested."

_I bet he's had his fake passport hidden away in a desk drawer for years. Just in case._ Malcolm shook his head. Singer clearing off was no surprise, but to tell the truth, he didn't really care. Having the culprits "brought to justice" after so many years wouldn't really change anything, and least of all would it bring back the Lost Ones.

"What are our orders, ma'am?" He hesitated. "Does Admiral Selin know about... about the incident with the Wildfire?"

"He does." T'Pol's voice sounded perfectly calm. "And he agrees with me that I only did what was logical. There will be no judicial inquiry whatsoever. We are to return to Earth and contact Starfleet Headquarters to deliver our mission report."

Malcolm found himself grinning with relief. The idea of Enterprise's senior crew facing court-martial had been weighing on his conscience for the last few days, tormenting him whenever he got too enthusiastic about their return to Earth. T'Pol's off-hand statement put his mind at ease.

Malcolm's eyes returned to the angry demonstrators on the screen, the stones hurled at the Headquarters' windows, and his smile faded at the sight.

"What about the Joint Forces?" he asked. "What's going to happen to them?"

T'Pol regarded him for a moment. "That," she said, "remains to be seen."

TBC...

Please let me know what you think!


	22. Chapter 21

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback!

The Libran Iniquity (Yup, nearly done. Although the experimental sedatives conspiracy sounds interesting... well, here we go, the plot bunnies bite again ;) ), Virgo (I guess you're right, maybe Trip would have asked about his children even before Malcolm mentioned them... they are, after all, the most important thing in his life), Tata (It's great to hear that you're enjoying the story so much! Thank you!), Gabi (Dankeschön... wenn schon die Bewohner des Planeten relativ ätzend sind, haben sie wenigstens eine ganz nette Sprache ;) ), stage manager (Nope, only read the book, which I liked a lot. I have to admit, I wasn't even aware that there was a Disney version... maybe because the story's not that well known in Germany), JadziaKathryn (thanks, and you'll see more of the other crewmembers in this chapter), volley (Sequel? -faints- Not another 100 000 words-monster ;)... then again, I have to admit, Malcolm finding his Lost Ones -is- a nice idea), trisuns5 (the thought occurred to me as well ;)... but as you said, they couldn't possibly get together in the AU universe), Trips Girl (Go L.C., she sounds just like my cat ;)! When I was re-reading this chapter, he walked across the keyboard of my computer and (accidently?) deleted a whole paragraph... oh well ;). Luckily I had it saved somewhere else as well. ), Emiliana Keladry (They certainly are a corrupt system... I guess Earth will be better off without them), Maraschino (I do, too ;)... well, here's another one), Exploded Pen (Can you show me how to do it (the mind control, I mean)? Might come in handy ;)... anyway, thanks for reviewing!), JennMel (thank you, please keep telling me what you think!)

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Chapter 21

"Ground control to Lieutenant Reed! Come in, Lieutenant!"

Startled, Malcolm looked up from his plate and saw Hoshi standing in front of him. The corners of her mouth twitched when he almost knocked over his glass.

"I'm sorry, I was lost in thought." He pointed at the chair next to his. "Please, take a seat."

Hoshi placed her tray on the table and sat down. "Thanks."

She picked up her fork, then looked across at the pasta Malcolm had barely touched - or rather, which he had reduced to an unsightly pulp in the middle of his plate. "You're going to tell me what's on your mind?"

Malcolm shrugged. To be honest, he wanted an answer to that question himself. "I don't know. Maybe it's just the lack of anything to do."

Hoshi gave him her best "here-we-go-again" look. "You've been out of sickbay for less than twenty-four hours, Lieutenant. And I hope you'll forgive me for saying so, but you do look like you need another few days of sick leave."

"Charming as always, Ensign." Malcolm smiled at her, enjoying their familiar banter. Hoshi wasn't going to fuss over him - on seeing him again, her first words had been "That'll save us the paperwork of asking for a replacement" - and Malcolm found that this was exactly what he needed. He was back, and he was alright. There was no need for anyone to tiptoe around him.

Hoshi forked some of her pasta into her mouth. "How's Trip?" she asked. "Still in sickbay?"

Malcolm shook his head and set his own pasta aside. "No, Phlox released him to his quarters this morning. He's supposed to rest for another couple of days so the drugs can wear off completely. I guess he's sleeping." He remembered how exhausted Trip had been after walking from sickbay to his quarters, all but collapsing on his bed. "He's still very tired most of the time."

Hoshi nodded. "I can imagine." She speared another piece of pasta with her fork, and looked up at him again, her expression unusually serious. "You're still thinking about it, aren't you? About what he did, I mean."

Malcolm lowered his eyes. No, Hoshi wasn't going to fuss, but the small drawback was that she could practically read his mind. It was an uncanny ability of hers, picking up on his thoughts as if she could actually see what was going on in his head.

"Sometimes," he admitted quietly. "That, and everything else."

They sat in silence for a while, Hoshi finishing her pasta and picking at her dessert cake as if she couldn't quite decide whether to eat it or not. After a while, Malcolm joined in, eating the raisins that Hoshi had picked out and discarded on the edge of her plate. Intent on dissecting the cake, both of them jumped when Archer set his tray down next to Hoshi's.

"Okay if I join you?"

Hoshi smiled at him, and Malcolm nodded. "Please do."

Archer took a seat, glancing across the table at Malcolm. "How're you doing, Lieutenant?"

"Better, thanks." Malcolm smiled. "It's good to be out of sickbay."

Archer nodded, absentmindedly picking at his food. He had chosen one of the Vulcan dishes, and didn't even seem to notice what he was eating, mechanically transferring bits of green into his mouth. Malcolm and Hoshi exchanged a look.

"Is there something wrong, sir?" the communications officer ventured finally.

Archer raised his eyes, then laid his fork aside and ran a hand through his hair, staring at his dinner as though he was trying to figure out how it had come to be there in front of him. "I'm sorry," he said. "I'm just a little rattled, I suppose." He sighed. "The Captain's just got a call from Admiral Selin."

Hoshi's head came up sharply at that. "What did he say?" She hesitated. "Did they...?"

"Yeah," Archer said heavily. "It's official. The Joint Forces have been dissolved. For good."

Silence ensued. Archer stared down at his plate, not meeting their eyes. A detached part of Malcolm's mind wondered why he was so surprised; after the newscast T'Pol had shown him he had known that it was only a matter of time. But still, thinking about a _possibility_ was one thing; hearing it aloud was another.

"So..." He picked at a few crumbs Hoshi had left on the table, not wanting to look at Archer. "I guess that means we're out of a job."

The Commander raised his eyes. "Not necessarily," he said. "Selin and his Command staff believe that the Joint Forces can't possibly continue to exist, after all what happened. Starfleet seems to be another matter, however."

Hoshi shook her head. "Even with the JF gone, I don't think people will accept us. And to be frank, I can't blame them."

"That's what the Captain told the Admiral," Archer said. "But Selin says he's optimistic. There were no Starfleet personnel involved in the affair, and the story of how T'Pol discovered the hidden archive files is all over the media. People back on Earth and Vulcan don't seem to blame us."

"What about Singer?" Hoshi wanted to know. "Did they find him?"

The Commander shook his head. "One of his staff said that he might have left the planet, but no one knows for sure. They're still looking for him, of course."

"So what's going to happen?" Malcolm asked. "Once we reach Earth, I mean."

Archer sighed. "Enterprise'll go into dry dock, I suppose. The Admiral said we're on "indefinite leave", whatever that's supposed to mean." He shrugged. "I'm not going, anyway. There's no way I'm leaving my engines in the hands of those Spacedock techs."

Malcolm saw Hoshi's lips twitch just the tiniest bit. "What about Martha?" she asked. "I'm sure she won't be happy if you spend your leave tinkering with the warp reactor."

At the mention of his wife, Archer's expression brightened a little. "Oh, she'll be fine," he said. "I promised her to give her a tour of Enterprise, and I guess she won't mind staying aboard for a while."

Knowing Martha Archer, a dedicated engineer and teacher at the Academy, Malcolm had no doubt that a few weeks cooped up with her husband and some machinery to work on would pass as a great vacation in her book.

"Yeah, well." Hoshi smiled. "Can't say I'm not looking forward to seeing my students again. It's not that I don't want to come back to Enterprise," she hastened to add. "It's just... I've had enough adventures for a while. And I do miss my folks at home."

Malcolm stared down at Hoshi's half-eaten cake, trying to ignore the hollow feeling in his chest. He had been pushing the thought of going back to Earth out of his mind, not knowing what to do with the idea. Or rather, what to do with himself. He couldn't really stay on Enterprise - the engineering team was more than capable of refitting the Armory, and he would only be in their way. Still, the prospect of spending his "indefinite leave" in some rental apartment somewhere on the Academy grounds was not something he was looking forward to.

"Malcolm?"

Raising his eyes, he found both Archer and Hoshi looking at him.

"Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Malcolm pushed back his chair and got up, giving them a rather forced smile. "I'm a little tired, I guess I'll call it a day. Commander, Ensign.."

He could feel their eyes between his shoulder blades as he walked to the door, but he never turned around. It was depressing enough to be the only human aboard who had absolutely no one waiting for him back on Earth. Additional worried looks and questions were just a little more than Malcolm wanted to deal with at the moment.

---------------------

At the door of his quarters, Malcolm hesitated. He hadn't lied when he told Hoshi and Archer that he was tired; his arm ached, and he could feel a headache starting. Turning in early seemed like good idea. Still, for some reason the thought of his empty quarters didn't seem very appealing; quite the opposite, actually. Malcolm doubted that he would be able to find any rest, lying in the dark and listening to himself breathing.

He stared at the door for a moment, then, abruptly, turned away. There was no reason why he couldn't check on Trip before he went to bed. See if he needed anything. And maybe talk a little.

The guest quarters were only a few corridors away on E-deck. His hand on the door panel, Malcolm remembered a second too late that Trip might have turned in as well. He bit his lip, deciding that he wasn't going to try again if Trip didn't answer within a few minutes. The other man needed his sleep even more than Malcolm did.

He was already about to turn away when the door opened, revealing Trip wearing sweat pants and one of the tee-shirts he had borrowed from Travis. He looked pale, and the pillow creases on his cheek indicated that he had been resting until a moment ago.

"Malcolm!" Trip's face lit up when he saw him, as if Malcolm hadn't just woken him from some much-needed sleep. "Please, come in."

"I'm sorry, Trip, I didn't mean to wake you up." Inwardly, Malcolm shook his head at his own stupidity. "I'll go back to my quarters..."

"Please. I don't mind. And I could use the company." Trip glanced over his shoulder with a rueful smile. "It's a little too quiet in here without the kids."

He made room and Malcolm followed him inside, the door closing behind them. Even though Trip did look tired, he seemed genuinely pleased, and the thought occurred to Malcolm that he might not be the only one who suffered from a lack of anything to do.

Trip turned around the desk chair so it was facing the bunk. "Please, sit down."

"Thanks." Malcolm took a seat, and at the same time noted several padds and papers lying on the table. "Looks like you've been busy. More lessons with Hoshi?"

"Not really." Trip sat down cross-legged on his bunk. "I've... I've been trying to write a letter. I find it easier to write it by hand first before I type it on the computer." He smiled, a little embarrassed. "I make fewer mistakes that way."

"A letter to your parents?" Malcolm asked.

"Yes, and to Sara and Sammy. I got another letter from them today. And I got one each from my brother and sister."

Malcolm sat up straight. "Your brother and sister?"

Trip nodded, picking up a padd from his bedside table. "Andy and Lizzie. I... I didn't even remember that I had a sister." He looked up at Malcolm. "It feels strange."

"I imagine it does." Briefly, Malcolm imagined how it would feel, meeting his own brother or sister. Or receiving their letter. Maybe - he flinched at the thought - he had even seen a relative of his during his time on Kareedia, seen but not recognized. Of course not. The idea, as unlikely as it was, was unsettling, and Malcolm found he could sympathize with the troubled look in Trip's eyes. It did feel strange, even in imagination.

"What do they say?"

"They want to know how I am, and my brother wrote something about his children. I think." Again, Trip seemed embarrassed. "I got the general idea, but there were a few things I couldn't quite figure out. I was hoping you could..."

"Of course." Malcolm held out his hand and smiled. "Any preferences which one you'd like to hear first?"

Trip answered his smile, handing him the padd. "It doesn't matter."

Malcolm skimmed over the text, a smile tugging at his lips when he saw the opening of the first letter.

"Hey little bro,

You could've knocked me down with a feather when Mom told me about your call. I straight down refused to believe her at first. I've got to admit, I'm more than excited about meeting you - and so is the rest of the tribe, by the way. Just so you're warned, there's no way they're not going to come round to meet you, and yes, that does mean _all_ of them.

I met Sara and Sammy when I visited Mom and Dad last week, and I've got to say, they're great kids. Matt and Philip - that's my sons - got along with them just fine. Phil is three, and you should have seen him with Sammy; both talking a blue streak in two different languages and using sign language if they felt that they did need to communicate. Mom and I were in stitches, listening to them."

Malcolm grinned, and saw Trip smiling as well. Neither of them had a hard time picturing the situation.

"Mom says that they're trying to use the translator as little as possible, so the kids can get used to speaking English. Sara's great; she's even picked up a little Spanish from the neighbor kids. I'm sure she'll be top of the class in a few years. And Sammy's a bright little guy, too. You can be proud of both of them.

Dad's told us that you haven't been well lately; he seemed reluctant to tell us more, but I guess I can imagine. Thank God that's all over and done with now, and that damned organization had to close shop. It was about time. Well, all I can really say is that I hope you're doing better; tell those Starfleet people to speed things up a little! Everybody here is just waiting for you to come home.

We'll see you soon!

Take care,

Andy."

Malcolm scrolled down the padd and regarded the picture of Sara, Sammy and a small, blond boy who was wearing an over-large grass-stained tee-shirt and smiling all over his face.

"This must be Phil," he said.

Trip nodded. "It's good to hear that Sara and Sammy get along so well with their cousins," he said. "They're not really used to playing with other children." He paused, seeming to go through the letter in his mind. "What does he mean, "the rest of the tribe"? Who's that?"

Malcolm grinned. "I believe he's referring to the rest of your family."

"Oh." Trip's eyes widened slightly. "Oh, of course."

Malcolm raised the padd. "Want to hear Lizzie's letter, too?"

Trip nodded, and Malcolm began to read.

"Dear Trip,

It feels strange to write to an older brother I have never met. I've got to admit, at first I was a little reluctant to do so... Andy's different, he never seems nervous about anything (in fact, he's already plotting how to get you to join his soccer team). I'm not like that, and at first I wasn't quite sure what to say. How you would react. But then it occurred to me that I'm probably not the only one feeling jittery... it can't be easy, meeting a family you haven't seen since you were four. We've got a lot of catching up to do, and even though I'm nervous as hell, I'm very much looking forward to meeting you. It may be a little strange at first, but that's okay. We can take the time to get to know each other better.

I've met Sara and Sammy when I was at Mom and Dad's place a few days ago. They're great kids, and probably the best thing that's happened to our parents in a long time. I can't remember when I last saw them so happy and full of life. Still, Sara and Sammy are missing you fiercely, and keep asking if you're going to come home soon. I believe they're slowly starting to feel at home on Earth, but I know it won't be the real thing for them as long as you're not around. To quote Dad, one more reason for Starfleet to get that warp engine of theirs up to speed!

Mom and Dad won't tell us exactly what happened to you on that Joint Forces vessel (I don't think they know all the details themselves). It seems that you've been through a lot lately, and it means so much to hear that you're going to be alright.

Please take care of yourself, Trip, and have a good journey back home. We're thinking of you.

Love,

Your sister Lizzie."

Trip was silent for a while after Malcolm had finished reading. Then he said: "She's right. It does feel strange, meeting them after so many years. I..." He swallowed. "I think they're going to be disappointed."

Malcolm met Trip's eyes, and saw the fear in them; fear that the family who was welcoming him so readily in their midst was going to turn away when they saw who he really was. Not some sort of mysterious, long-lost adventurer, but just a quiet, too-thin man who had led a life so different that he was going to seem like an alien to them.

"They won't be," Malcolm said quietly. "They've got no reason to. And Trip..." He hesitated, unsure how to put his thoughts into words. "I... I don't think they're expecting you to be anyone that you are not. I believe they only want you to come home."

For some reason, it hurt, saying these words. Malcolm glanced down at his hands, avoiding Trip's eyes.

The other man let out a small sigh. "Yes, well. In any case, I'm glad you're coming, too. I don't know if I could find the courage to meet them alone."

Malcolm's head came up with a start. He wasn't quite sure if he had heard him right, but Trip's anxious expression erased his doubts.

"You... you are coming, aren't you?"

"Trip..." Malcolm shook his head. "I couldn't do that. Your family... they wouldn't want-"

"But they do!" Trip seemed surprised that Malcolm would even consider otherwise. "My mother wanted to know if you'd mind staying in the guest room. She doesn't usually put any of the family in there, but with me and the children staying as well there wouldn't be enough space."

Malcolm stared at him, then let out a nervous laugh. "Trip, you're not serious..."

"Why not?" Trip appeared genuinely confused.

"Trip, I..." Malcolm trailed off. He remembered their first conversation with Trip's parents, how Mrs. Tucker had casually mentioned that she wanted "both of them" home as soon as possible. Then, Malcolm had not taken it seriously; people would say that kind of thing as often as not, without even thinking about it. Recalling the determined look in Susan's eyes, however, Malcolm realized that he might have been a little rash in his judgment. The way Trip made it sound, he, Malcolm Reed, had been adopted into the Tucker family long ago without even knowing it.

"Trip..." Malcolm broke off. There was no way he could intrude into the family's private sphere to that degree. He was going to tell them that he appreciated the offer, that he had a lot of work to do at the Academy and-

"Well?" Trip said, watching him expectantly. "Are you coming?"

Silence followed. And then Malcolm nodded. "Yes," he said. "I am."

Epilogue soon to come up!

Please let me know what you think!


	23. Epilogue

Title: Thursday's Child

Author: Sita Z

Rating: T

AN: Thanks for the feedback, everyone!

Tata (thank you so much, and yes, I'm writing another one... it's still going to take a while until it's finished, though), volley (one of my betas said the same thing about Archer... you're right, I guess he just didn't get enough character development. Thanks for reviewing, and I'm looking forward to you-know-what ;) ), Gabi (Ja, Zeit wird's (dass er endlich heimkommt)... und sämtliche Shuttles wurden gegen Aircars ausgetauscht ;) ), JadziaKathryn (yes, poor Trip... I can just see Andy dragging him to football practice and hundreds of Tuckers fussing over him ;) ), Emiliana Keladry (thank you, I'm glad you enjoyed the story!), The Libran Iniquity (Hope the plot bunny involving a certain idiot is still chasing you... can't wait to see what the Denobulan "Who Wants To Snog A Starfleet Officer" Club has been up to ;) ), stage manager (It -is- a great book, that's right... thanks for reviewing!), trisuns5 (Yes, Malcolm and the Tucker family might make for an interesting combination... I hope you'll enjoy the epilogue!), Trips Girl (I guess Singer does get away... although he'll never be able to return to Earth. Thanks to you and the cats for reviewing!), Maraschino (hmm, we'll see about the sequel ;) ), Virgo (there might have been something else going wrong, that's right... on the other hand, I think it's time for the boys to go home), Triptacular (Thanks! Yes, for some reason I think Archer'd make a great dad - or uncle, for that matter... let me know what you think about the epilogue!), Rinne (Thanks, I'm glad you're enjoying it), firebirdgirl (Thanks for reviewing chapters 20-22... and sorry, no going after the bad guys, at least not in this story ;) ), RoaringMice ( I guess they had the adoption papers signed even before he got back to Earth :) ), Exploded Pen (Mind control's still working, here's the update...)

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Epilogue

They climbed out of the aircar into a hot August day. The side street where Malcolm had landed the vehicle was flooded with sunshine, and everything was bathed in a dusty white glow. Two small boys passed by on the otherwise deserted sidewalk, gaping at Malcolm's uniform. He smiled at them before they disappeared around a corner.

He hoisted his bag onto his shoulder and for a moment stood, his eyes closed, enjoying the fresh smell and the feeling of the sun on his skin. On going back to Vulcan, Skitra had said what he was missing most (or rather, "the most positive aspect of returning home") was the warmth and sunshine, and right now, Malcolm found that he couldn't agree more. He had been inside for too long.

Behind him, he could hear Trip closing the hatch, and turned around. Just like Malcolm had, Trip remained standing next to the aircar for a few seconds, squinting in the bright sunshine that was so different from the artificial light on a starship.

"It's so..." He looked around, taking in the buildings and small shops that lined the street. "So peaceful."

Malcolm could see that Trip was surprised. Briefly, he thought of the last things Trip must remember of this place - burning houses, screams, death and destruction. Watching his friend, he nodded carefully.

"It is at that," he said. "You still want to have a look around?"

Trip nodded, and, picking up his small bag, slowly began to walk down the street. On their way down to the surface, they had agreed not to go directly to the Tuckers' house.

"Might be easier if we take a walk first," Trip had said. Malcolm, realizing how nervous Trip felt, didn't ask why, but simply parked the aircar a few hundred meters away from their final destination.

Now, however, as he walked down the streets of his hometown, Trip's nervousness seemed to have passed. The way he let his eyes travel across his surroundings suggested that he felt at ease, and Malcolm refrained from asking him if he remembered anything about the place. It didn't matter; as long as Trip could walk down these streets without encountering the demons of his childhood, it didn't matter at all whether he had any memories of his hometown or not.

They passed a memorial in the middle of a small square, an unadorned granite block with a date and several hundred names engraved on the hard stone. Malcolm let his eyes travel across the list, involuntarily looking for a certain name. He found it, and for a moment stood next to the stone, not sure what to say, when he noticed that Trip had already reached the far end of the square. He hadn't spared the names on the stone a single glance.

Turning his back to the memorial, Malcolm walked across the sun-warmed paving of the square and caught up with his friend. Trip checked the padd with the road map and pointed down a street leading away from the square.

"That way," he said.

Silently, Malcolm followed as Trip began to walk down the dusty street. He noticed the crooked old pine trees lining the side of the road, breathed in their minty scent, and realized, to his own surprise, that he liked this place. It was, indeed, peaceful.

After another fifty meters, the street took a turn, leading farther away from the town. Malcolm saw a few detached houses here and there, and an old, two-storey farmhouse at the very end of the road. Trip had stopped in his tracks, staring at the house with a strange expression on his face. This time, Malcolm had no doubt that he did remember the place. And that he was trying hard to muster up the courage to go on.

"Shall we?" Malcolm asked quietly, and after a moment, Trip nodded.

"Yes," he said. "Let's go."

They didn't get very far, however. About fifty meters away from the house, something small shot out from between the hazel bushes, launching itself at Trip with such speed that he staggered back when he caught it.

"Daddy!"

"Daddy!" Sara scrambled down the side of the road after her brother. "Daddy, you're back!"

This time Trip did lose his balance, but he didn't seem to mind, sitting in the middle of the road and hugging the children as if his life depended on it.

Sammy was the only one of the three who was able to say anything, talking rapid-fire English with scraps of Kareedian as if he were trying to fit the entire conversation of the last few months into two minutes.

"-and Matt show me how to swim - I can swim, Daddy! - and I not want to go see the doctor but Susan says we all go and we have ice-cream afterwards and I-"

He stopped for a moment to take a breath, and Trip pulled him closer. "Sounds like you've been busy, partner."

Sara tilted her head back to look at him. "I missed you, Daddy," she said quietly. "Are you going to stay with us now? Not go away again?"

Her dark eyes searched his face, and Trip tightened his arm around her. "I missed you too. And I'm not going to go away again. Not this time."

Malcolm raised his eyes when he noticed someone coming down from the house towards them, a small blonde woman with gray streaks in her hair. An elderly man wearing faded jeans and a green garden apron followed shortly after.

Trip seemed to have noticed them as well - he picked himself up off the street, clumsily dusting himself off. Sara took her brother's hand.

"Come on, Daddy wants to meet Susan and Charles. Let's say hello to Malcolm."

Malcolm hadn't expected it, but the little boy's face lit up at the sight of him, and a moment later he found himself catching the same small missile that had almost knocked Trip down a minute ago.

"Hello, Malcolmreed!" Sammy grinned up at him, clinging to his legs. "I can swim, you know!"

"Then you can teach me one day." Malcolm smiled and picked the youngster up in his arms. "It's good to see you, Sammy. You too, Sara."

The girl smiled shyly. "You're going to stay with us too, aren't you? I don't want you to leave again."

"This time, we're going to stay." Malcolm reached out, taking her hand. "Promise."

He raised his head again and saw Trip and his parents facing one another. For a few seconds none of them said a word, then Susan timidly, carefully extended a hand, touching her son's arm. Her face was pale.

"Trip," she whispered.

A few days ago, Trip had told Malcolm that he was afraid he wouldn't even know what to say. Malcolm, who was quite familiar with the problem, had not been able to offer any useful advice. He had no idea what you said to your parents when meeting them again after thirty years.

It turned out, however, that there was no need to say anything at all. After a moment's hesitation, wordlessly asking for Trip's permission, Susan stepped closer and wrapped her arms around her son, as if she never wanted to let go again.

Trip returned the hug, albeit timidly, and Malcolm saw his arms shake. They remained that way for a long time, silently holding each other. Then Susan stepped back again, wiping her palms across her cheeks.

"I- I'm sorry..."

"Welcome home, son." Charles Tucker had tears running down his face, but he was smiling at the same time, pulling his son into a hug. "Trip."

All the time, Trip hadn't said a word, but now he cleared his throat. "Thank you," he said hoarsely. "I mean... I..."

"It's okay," Charles said. "Don't need to say anythin', son. It's alright."

Susan smiled through her tears, glancing over Trip's shoulder. "Malcolm!" Before Malcolm could say or do anything, she had crossed the short distance between them and pulled him into a hug as well. "It's so good to see you."

Malcolm was too perplexed to do anything but awkwardly return the hug, and a moment later Trip's father had grabbed his hand and was shaking it for all he was worth.

"We're so grateful for all that you've done."

Malcolm had only just started to assemble an appropriate reply in his head when Susan interrupted him.

"Why don't we all go back inside," she said, and Malcolm saw that she was trying hard to sound normal, both for her own sake and that of her son, who still seemed rather nervous.

Sara came over to take her father's hand.

"Yes, let's go inside, Daddy," she said. "I want to show you my new books."

Trip's father smiled at her. "That's a great idea, honey."

Malcolm caught Trip's eyes, and saw a careful smile tugging at the other man's lips. He smiled back, nodding imperceptibly, and the nervousness disappeared from Trip's face.

"I'd love to see your books, honey."

Sara smiled in response, tugging at his hand. "Then let's go."

And they did.

The End

Thanks to everybody who reviewed one or more chapters of this story! Your feedback and encouragement means a lot! And at the danger of repeating myself, another big thank you goes to my wonderful betas - T'eyla, TLI and Gabi - who helped me get things right and get the story posted. THANKS GIRLS!

And, once again, please let me know what you think :)!


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